


Blood of the Covenant (Water of the Womb)

by shesgotthespirit



Category: Southern Vampire Mysteries - Charlaine Harris, True Blood (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Turned Into Vampire, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Family Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I wouldn't call it bashing but..., Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Maker and Progeny, Not Canon Compliant, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Prophetic Visions, Psychic Abilities, Vampire Turning, Vampire incest?, Vampires, and back again, duh - Freeform, family with benefits?, hmm, lots of relationships tagged but not really about romance, mentioned only - Freeform, not bill compton friendly, not sookie stackhouse friendly, oc said fuck canon, sometimes, this fic is about family i swear, vampires show affection through sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24187549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shesgotthespirit/pseuds/shesgotthespirit
Summary: Blood is thicker than water. And in this strange new world, the blood is sacred.ORAfter everything vampires took from her, Olive never thought they'd be the ones to teach her what it means to truly live.
Relationships: Bill Compton/Sookie Stackhouse, Eric Northman & Original Female Character(s), Eric Northman & Pam Swynford De Beaufort, Eric Northman/Original Female Character(s), Godric & Eric Northman, Godric (True Blood) & Original Female Character(s), Godric (True Blood)/Original Female Character(s), Godric/Eric Northman, Godric/Original Female Character(s), Pam Swynford de Beaufort & Original Female Character(s), Pam Swynford de Beaufort/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 102
Kudos: 313





	1. Blood of the Covenant

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Blood of the Covenant (Water of the Womb)! I've been on a bit of a vampire kick lately, so here's a True Blood offering to join my other Vampire Diaries fic. Updates as they're written.
> 
> Warnings for this story: Canon-typical violence and swearing, and possibly sex (though, God help me, I've never written smut before, so we'll see); wild canon divergence is planned, so extensive knowledge of the series is probably not necessary.

Olive shivered lightly as an unseasonably chilly wind swept through the darkened streets of the city of Shreveport. Winters in the deep south may not have been as cold as they were in her home state of Virginia, but without the warmth of the sun to protect her Olive was feeling decidedly underdressed for the cold of a December night in northern Louisiana. Her trusty pullover sweatshirt and denim jacket combo was simply not cutting it. 

Glancing around the sparsely populated streets a bit nervously, Olive hitched her backpack higher on her shoulders, burying her freezing fingers in her armpits and taking the opportunity to palm the trusty silver dagger hidden in her inner pocket. Normally Olive tried to avoid the seedier areas of the cities she didn’t know well--especially when said cities were known to be vampire hotspot--but she’d spent most of her remaining cash on a train ticket to Shreveport from Little Rock, so this was realistically the only part of town where she’d be able to afford a motel room for the the night. Needs must, and all. 

Olive grimaced at the unmistakable sound of fucking coming from an alley way as she passed by. Why was she here? Why had her gut been urging her south to Shreveport for nigh on a month? Why was it still pushing her forward even now? Olive made a point to always listen to her instincts, as they’d gotten her out of more than one sticky (read: potentially deadly) situation over the years. Of course, they’d also gotten her  _ into _ trouble on occasion as well, though she had always emerged from those particular scraps having learned some sort of important lesson or skill that had served her well henceforth.

If Olive were honest with herself, which she tried to be, then she knew her instincts weren’t just normal old gut feelings. They were more of an honest-to-God sixth sense than anything else. Olive’s mother had been a genuine, practicing psychic medium, so perhaps she came by her extra sensory perceptions honestly. Olive still hesitated to call  _ herself _ a psychic of any kind, but she couldn’t deny that there was a little something supernatural about her. After all, other people’s instincts didn’t tell them exactly what to say or do to get them out of trouble, every time, without fail. Or precisely how they needed to hold themselves to seem most appealing, or least threatening, or  _ most _ threatening. Regular intuition didn’t tell you what route you should take in order to avoid a traffic accident or a street fight that hadn’t even started yet. They  _ certainly _ didn’t blare at you that you  _ should not get on _ a particular bus, only for you to find out later that the driver had a bad reaction to an interaction between his heart and thyroid medications halfway through the route, consequently crashing the bus and killing seven people. And if your instincts  _ did _ tell you that  _ once _ , they certainly wouldn’t do it again and  _ again, _ allowing you to scrape in and out of circumstances that really should have killed you with little to no harm done.

Olive sighed. Her magical gut feelings had told her to come to Shreveport, so she had come to Shreveport. Hadn’t even really considered  _ not _ doing so, in fact. The urge had felt. . . incredibly important, somehow, in a way that not even warnings about immediate danger to her life had managed. It wasn’t a feeling she was familiar with. It was. . . bigger, Olive supposed. Bigger than just danger or deception or any of the other things Olive’s gut usually instructed her on. As if the decision to come to Louisiana would affect her irrevocably, for years to come. 

It felt like opportunity. And if Olive was anything, it was opportunistic. She’d had to be.

Now that she was actually  _ in _ Shreveport, however, all Olive really felt was that she was surrounded by a low level of danger at all times. Whatever opportunity she was supposed to be grasping here, Olive couldn’t see it. Well, good things to those who wait and all, and hopefully to those who follow their preternatural instincts. Olive could be patient.

The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood up, the skin beneath them prickling. Shit. Okay, so maybe she couldn’t afford to be patient. Olive would recognize that feeling anywhere. Her instincts blared an alarm at the base of her skull.

Someone was watching her. More than that, her intuition warned, someone was hunting her.

Fucking vampires. 

Olive crammed her hands into her inner pockets, curling her fingers around her silver knife. She scanned her surroundings with both her human senses and her supernatural ones, allowing her instincts to flare and direct her attention towards the threat at hand. She didn’t know exactly where the vampires stalking her were, but there was definitely more than one. The streets around her appeared empty, lined by disreputable establishments whose bright neon signs provided the only light and color in an otherwise dim, gray area. They flickered and flashed blindingly, humming with electricity. Olive could hear the roar of city life in the distance, and the dull thud of pulsing dance music through the concrete walls of a strip club across the street. She considered going in. It was likely crowded, and vampires were forbidden from feeding in public spaces--including private establishments into which the public was invited, such as restaurants and clubs. She might be safe there for a time. . . No. Her instincts urged her forward, faint impressions of potential consequences flitting lightly across the backs of her eyelids as she blinked. A V lab in the basement of the strip club, a fight breaking out, screaming and gunshots. Hmm. It wasn’t often that she got details like that. Olive made a note of the address. Assuming she survived this, she’d have to find some way to alert the local vampire Sheriff to the V operation running right under his nose. Vampires took that shit seriously, and for good reason. V could wreck people quicker than heroin and cocaine combined. 

So the club was out. The thrill of real fear and adrenaline was now beginning to take root in Olive’s chest. Her breath still fogged up the air in front of her face, but with her blood pumping this fast, Olive wasn’t anything resembling cold anymore. Unfortunately, she was probably becoming more tempting to her vampire stalkers by the moment as her heartbeat ratcheted up. 

Olive considered her other options. The half-illuminated sign of the motel she’d planned to stay at tonight was now visible at the end of the street. She  _ might  _ be able to make it, but once she was there, there wasn’t really anything to stop the vampires from following her in and draining her in the privacy of her room. Motels didn’t offer the same protections from vampires that private residences did, after all. Her pursuers wouldn’t need an invitation to enter.

Abruptly, Olive’s intuition yanked on her,  _ hard _ , and she followed it blindly, veering unhesitatingly into a narrow alley lit only by a single flickering floodlight. Snarls rang out behind her, Olive’s hair blowing about in a burst of displaced air as the vampire who had appeared suddenly behind her failed to grab hold of her. Olive whirled around, snatching a wooden broom that had been leaning against the wall as she went. Lifting her foot high, she brought it down on the handle as hard as she could, snapping it. Instincts still blaring, Olive leapt backwards even as she completed her turn back towards the mouth of the alley, raising her new weapon as she went. Her vampire attacker froze as she leveled the sharp end of her makeshift stake at his chest, having nearly impaled himself on it with the force of his own forward momentum as he pounced towards her.

“Good evening,” Olive said placidly, keeping her face calm through sheer force of will. “Bit cold for Louisiana, isn’t it?” 

The vampire seemed amused despite himself, and he smirked, showing off a respectable set of fangs. “Ah well,” he commented. “It’s December, after all.”

Two more vampires materialized at the mouth of the alley way in a blur of speed, another male--bigger and physically older in appearance than the one who had lunged for Olive already--and a female. Their fangs descended in fury when they saw the position their nest mate (presumably) was in.

“No need for that,” Olive said quietly. “Why don’t we talk about this like the civilized adults we are?” she suggested. 

Big Guy scoffed out a gruff snort. “I don’t have to talk to food.”

Olive couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. “But apparently you like to play with it,” she retorted.

The smaller male laughed lightly, breaking his stand off with Olive’s stake to blur back towards his companions in a movement Olive could barely follow. “You’ve got balls, blood bag,” he grinned. “It’s almost a shame to eat you.”

“You could always go eat someone else,” Olive said, shamelessly throwing a hypothetical stranger under the bus. One by one the vampires began to stalk towards her, and she turned to put her back to the wall of the alley. The last thing she wanted was one of them getting behind her. “As you can probably tell, I’m not about to make myself an easy meal,” she cajoled. Even as she pressed for a bloodless outcome to this situation, however, Olive could sense this wasn’t going to end any way but violently. Still, it was worth a shot. “Why go for me when you could pick up some fast food at any fangbanger bar in the city?”

Little Guy chuckled again. “I dislike the taste of desperation,” he admitted, shrugging callously. “But I do so love the sweet tang of fear.”

Olive narrowed her eyes. “Fair enough,” she said darkly, before lunging forward. The move was so unexpected that she actually managed to plant the broken broom handle in the smaller male’s stomach before he or either of his nest mates could react. Olive followed that up immediately by chucking her backpack straight at Big Guy’s face as a distraction and making a break for it.

Of course, that didn’t work, but Olive hadn’t really been expecting it to. She made it all of two feet before Lady Vamp was on her, pinning Olive to the wall and sinking her fangs into her throat. Olive cried out at the shock of sudden agony and the bizarre feeling of her blood being sucked, but this was far from the first time she’d been bitten by a vampire, so she worked through the pain, groping in her jacket for her dagger. Silver in hand, Olive reached up and stabbed blindly, planting the knife in Lady Vamp’s neck with a grunt of effort.

The vampire shrieked, instinctively tearing herself away from the silver, which had the unfortunate side effect of pulling the dagger’s razor sharp edge through the front of her throat as she hurled herself backwards, slitting her neck open from the inside out and splattering Olive with blood. “Eugh,” Olive complained, wiping blood away from her eyes with a sleeve. Unfortunately, she knew that if she succeeded in killing any of the vampires, she’d be dealing with a lot more mess than just a little bit of blood. Preemptively, she bid a fond farewell to her favorite jean jacket. 

The sight and smell of the silver dagger had all three vampires hissing dangerously, practically spitting in rage. “You dare--” Big Guy rumbled angrily.

Olive cut him off impatiently, “Oh, just get on with it already!” she snapped. 

This, evidently, was all the encouragement needed, as no sooner had Olive spoken then she was being slammed against the far wall of the alley by two sets of hands, ribs crunching painfully and hip banging against a dumpster as she went. Two pairs of fangs dug into her body, one at her shoulder and another at her bicep. The arm holding her dagger was pinned so hard that she could feel the bones in her wrist grinding together. Still, Olive twisted her hand, expertly reversing the grip on her knife and stabbing downward and through the forearm holding her dominant hand prisoner. Little Guy roared in agony, tearing his head away from her bicep and loosening his grip slightly. 

Instantly, Olive struck, tearing her arm free and nailing him in the face with a vicious right cross. Her dagger, still in a reverse grip, swiped clear through his cheeks, over the bridge of his nose, and up into the corner of his eye as her fist traveled, leaving a searing, smoldering trail in its wake. The smaller male stumbled back a step or two, snarling, and Olive didn't hesitate to punt him in the groin when the opportunity presented itself. He fell backwards, releasing a tortured groan and leaving Olive’s right side completely free. 

Big Guy had continued drinking from Olive’s shoulder all this time, and she was beginning to feel dizzy. Therefore, she didn’t allow herself to falter, instead following her gut’s urging to lift the dagger and stab again, directly into the back of Big Guy’s neck. He dropped like a rock, fangs tearing free messily, and didn’t move. Dimly, Olive realized she must have severed his spinal column. With the silver knife still inside, the wound wouldn’t heal, leaving him paralized from the neck down until he managed to expel the silver or one of his friends worked up the courage to pull the dagger out. This left Olive minus one enemy, which was good. It also left Olive minus a weapon, which was less good. 

Lady Vamp screeched in rage ( _ Shit  _ that was unpleasant, didn’t she have super hearing? How could she stand to make that kind of racket?), her throat finally healed, and rushed forward at speed, shoving Olive so hard she went flying back into the alley way, landing harshly on the pavement. She groaned loudly as her head cracked against the ground, brain ringing in her skull. Olive could practically feel the goose egg forming, not to mention the fact that if her ribs hadn’t been broken before, they certainly were now. 

On the bright side, Olive’s intuition told her that Lady Vamp had tossed her to the ground close to where Little Guy had dropped the broken broom handle after he’d extracted it from his intestines. She groped around for it desperately, aching fingers wrapping around it just in time to thrust it forwards as Lady Vamp descended upon Olive from above. In a mockery of the maneuver Olive had pulled at the very beginning of this confrontation (mere minutes ago, though it felt like much longer), Lady Vamp’s own momentum worked against her, as the force of her movement impaled her on the stake without Olive applying much pressure at all. The wooden weapon struck true, piercing the vampires heart with ease, and she exploded in a massive splatter of blood and stringy viscera, most of which landed squarely on Olive’s legs and stomach. She gagged. “Fucking  _ ew _ !” Olive griped.

Now really wasn’t the time for complaints, she could acknowledge distantly, but her vision was beginning to blur and it was becoming rather difficult to think straight. Olive managed to sit up about halfway, propping herself up on her elbows before rolling to the side and hacking up a mouthful of blood. Well that wasn’t good. Olive’s head sagged.

Suddenly, her surroundings tilted and whirled nauseatingly as she was flung against a dirty alley wall for the third time that night. Little Guy pinned her by the throat with one hand, fingers digging painfully into the bite mark Lady Vamp had left. With his other hand, he caught Olive’s arm as she swung weakly at him with the broom handle, snapping her wrist mercilessly. It hurt like hell, but Olive barely had it in her to whimper. The world was beginning to go dark at the edges. Olive couldn’t even tell if her eyes were all the way open. 

“You little bitch!” Little Guy hissed, spittle flying everywhere. The cut across his face was now nothing more than a faint, burned line, fading fast before Olive’s eyes. Then again, everything seemed to be fading before Olive’s eyes, so maybe he wasn’t so special. 

Olive laughed a tad hysterically, not remembering why she shouldn’t. “Told you. . . I wasn’t gonna make it easy,” she choked out. “Shoulda gone. . . for the desperate fast food after all. . . huh?”

Little Guy snarled, lifting her away from the wall only to slam her back down into it again. Olive’s skull hit the filthy bricks hard enough that she felt something crack. “I’m going to enjoy eating you,” he growled.

Somehow, Olive wasn’t afraid. Her instincts had kept her alive for 20 years, yet they had brought her here to Shreveport, to this alley, on this night. Maybe it was arrogant to think that her gut would never steer her wrong, but Olive was still waiting for that. . . largeness. That great, gaping maw of opportunity that had tugged her to Louisiana in the first place. That feeling was important, and it had led her to this encounter. Something more than death was coming for her. Something bigger, something. . . something vital. 

As if on cue, Olive’s intuition flared up again, that huge, open, yawning sensation making itself known again, more immediate than ever before. This close to the feeling, Olive could identify it a little better. It was still a bit unfamiliar, something she couldn’t quite put a name to, but it felt a bit like a kind of freedom. Like something dangerously close to hope. 

“Well, well, well,” a new voice interrupted suddenly. Deep and male with a peculiar accent (something southern meets something. . . old), the voice cut through Olive like a freshly sharpened knife. She gasped quietly, something shifting inside her. Her instincts screamed.  _ Important! This person is important! This person is inevitable! _ The man continued, stepping into the dim fluorescent cast of the floodlight. Through her fluttering eyelids, Olive could see only that he was very tall, and very blond. “Looks like we had some kinda party here.” The man paused, and when he spoke again his voice took on a certain edge. “A party of the fun, but  _ illegal _ variety.” 

Little Guy dropped Olive like she’d burned him, exclaiming, “Sheriff Northman!,” and turning to face the newcomer so quickly that she wondered absently if vampires could get whiplash. 

But then Olive fell to the ground, legs folding beneath her like wet paper and pure agony racing up her spine, and she figured vampires could go fuck themselves. 

* * *

Fangtasia was as crowded as ever, maybe even more so than usual. It was winter, after all, which meant longer nights and more hours for vampires to be out and about attracting tourists and fangbangers alike. It was mid December as well, nearly the winter solstice, and the longest night of the year always saw a special celebration at Shreveport’s own vampire bar. In this, the week leading up to it, Pam had seen fit to offer a series of deals and themed nights in order to increase business and interest in the solstice party.

She always was the better businessperson between the two of them, and Eric had never hesitated to tell her so. 

In the heat of the packed club, one could hardly tell that it was unusually cold outside for a Louisiana winter, with temperatures having dipped down into the low 30s. It didn’t bother any of the vampire clubgoers of course, let alone Eric himself, but the cold sent humans scurrying for indoor cover, drawing customers to Fangtasia who wouldn’t normally bother visiting and adding to the massive throng of breathers currently taking up space in Eric’s club. 

The conflation of these factors resulted in a crowd of nearly 150 writhing bodies, all crammed up right against one another on the dance floor like sardines in a can, stinking up the place with sweat and pathetic outpourings of pheromones. Eric was glad for the separation from the crowd granted to him by the raised stage and his throne. Truthfully, while it was amusing to lord over the breathers and watch them lust and pine after him, he didn’t really enjoy putting in face time at the club. He had much better things to be doing than entertaining the masses. But Fangtasia had an image to maintain, and the club was too good of a source of easy revenue, willing blood, and enthusiastic partners for Eric to damage that image on a whim. 

So, as usual, Eric would stay sitting on his throne for a couple of hours, looking appropriately intimidating, sexy, and unattainable (not difficult, considering he  _ was _ all of those things, if he did say so himself), before retreating to his blessedly soundproofed office for the rest of the night. He’d already been on the stage for about an hour and a half, so he only really had to stay for another 60 minutes or so before he could escape without attracting Pam’s wrath. Maybe he’d take someone with him, if anybody caught his eye, but with the way the scent of stale sweat and desperation had overtaken the club tonight, he doubted anyone would appeal to him this evening. 

Suddenly, a distinct tug from somewhere behind his breastbone startled Eric out of his stone-faced contemplation of the masses below, and he sucked in a startled breath. He’d recognize that tug anywhere, for all that he’d only felt it once before, a little over a century ago. It had been that tug, that pull at his cold, undead heart, that had led him straight to Pamela, back when she was still human. Godric, he knew, had also felt that pull, and had followed it across the Scandanavian peninsula 1,000 years ago until he’d found Eric himself. 

It was an instinct known as the Maker’s Call, and it was as old as vampires themselves. An impulse, an intuition that led potential Makers to those who were perfectly suited to be their progeny. Vampires could turn whomever they wanted to, of course, but none would ever compliment them so well as those they were drawn to by the Maker’s Call. 

The Call was actually quite rare. It was unusual for it to be felt as frequently in a single bloodline as it had been in Eric’s. He put that down to the power and age of Godric’s blood. Both Eric and his Maker had, after all, been over 1,000 years old the first time they felt the Call. It was an honor and a privilege to respond to it.

Another tug at his sternum had Eric standing quickly. “Pamela,” he summoned, speaking quietly, and she arrived instantly at his side. 

One look at his face and a brush of his emotions against hers within their bond had Pam’s light smirk falling off her face entirely. “What is it?” she asked seriously.

Eric made for the back door of the club, gesturing for her to walk with him. “I need to go,” he confided, voice low enough that none of the other vampires in the bar would be able to hear. “Your future sibling Calls.”

“My future what now,” Pam said blankly, unimpressed, before catching on. “Calls--the Maker’s Call? Now?”

“Indeed,” Eric said brusquely, pushing through the “Employees Only” door at the back of the club and striding down the hallway behind it. “And whoever it is, they’re close. I’ll likely summon you within the hour to bury us.”

“So, what, you’re just going to race off into the night and come back tomorrow with a new childe?” Pam accused peevishly, and something about her tone and the emotions their bond was sending to him from her had Eric pausing halfway out the door to look back at her.

“Pamela,” he said softly after a moment, having identified her mild feelings of jealousy and insecurity for what they were. “There is nothing and no one in the world who could replace you.” Eric cupped the back of her neck and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. His progeny didn’t often feel insecure, and he wanted to nip that in the bud before it got out of hand.

Pam smirked wryly, seeming reluctantly pleased. “Not even the new baby?”

“Not even them,” Eric swore. “Besides, I thought you might like having a younger sibling to boss around,” he joked. Eric, of course, would be the ultimate authority for his new progeny, but Pam would be an important influence in his or her life as an older sister as well. Hmm, he liked the sound of that. “You might not be my only childe after this night, but you’ll be something greater.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “You’ll be my firstborn. My eldest. I expect you to take that responsibility seriously.”

Eric could sense Pam steeling herself, shoving her jealousy down in the face of her Maker’s wishes. The problem wasn’t completely solved, but hopefully seeing with her own eyes how having a new childe would not decrease Eric’s love for her in the slightest would help Pam settle. For now, at least, he knew she would obey him. “I hear little ones are a lotta work,” Pamela drawled, crossing her arms, clearly wishing to move past the moment of vulnerability. 

Eric smirked. “You were,” he teased, not untruthfully. He’d spent many years cleaning up Pam’s messes when she was a young vampire. “But I wouldn’t worry.” He focused on the strong tug within his ribcage, pulling him towards his future progeny, somewhere out there in the city. “I have a feeling they’re going to be magnificent.”

With that, Eric elbowed his way of Fangtasia’s back door, taking to the skies as soon as he was clear of the building. The Call pulled him away from the city proper, out of more mainstream clubbing areas and into truly decrepit neighborhoods. Fangtasia was hardly prime real estate, part of an old strip mall as it was, but even the vampire bar found its home in less sleazy parts of town than the streets that the Maker’s Call urged Eric towards. What was his wayward little future childe up to? 

The Call suddenly yanked on him harshly, urgently, and Eric sped up at its insistence. Hmm. Perhaps this was going to be more similar to his own Turning than anything else. Godric had approached Eric about becoming a vampire only after he’d been fatally wounded in battle. 

The wind brought the smell of blood, both vampire and human, to Eric’s nostrils. The scent was coming from the same direction Eric was traveling, which supported his theory. Alarmingly, the pull from the Call faltered slightly. Whatever had happened, his potential progeny was fading fast. Eric raced ahead, determined to reach the human before it was too late for even him to intervene. 

There! Up ahead, the source of the blood and the sound of a fight. A vampire snarled loudly, closely followed by a female voice, young, croaking out a laugh. “Told you. . . I wasn’t gonna make it easy,” the girl said. Eric’s still heart leapt, the Call surging forward in his chest. That was her. She was  _ his _ . A daughter, a sister.  _ His. _ “Shoulda gone. . . for the desperate fast food after all. . . huh?” she groaned.

“I’m going to enjoy eating you,” a male voice growled, guttural. A vampire, not one Eric recognized by voice. Anger ignited in the Sheriff’s chest. How dare some puny little upstart lay a hand on what was rightfully Eric’s?

The confrontation at hand suddenly became visible as Eric crested over the edge of a tall warehouse building. Down in an alley below, a vampire had a young human woman pinned to the wall by the throat. She was bleeding from several wounds, and far too much blood was outside of her body for her to survive the night, even with the help of medical attention or vampire blood. Either she would meet the True Death, or she would Turn. However, it seemed Eric’s little progeny-to-be had not actually come out worst in this fight. There was another male vampire, down on the ground with a silver knife in the back of his neck keeping him paralized, and a large pile of guts, blood, and other viscera a little further into the alley that could only be the remains of a slain vampire. Eric noted with pride that his future childe had clearly been the one to dispatch the unfortunate vampire, given that her lower body was completely coated in a layer of blood and gore.

Quickly, Eric dropped to the ground at the mouth of the alley and stepped forward into the small amount of light thrown by a floodlight above a dumpster. “Well, well, well,” he said cooly, interrupting the only vampire still on his feet before the fool could bite Eric’s potential progeny. Eric’s tone was flat, almost bored, but he was releasing enough furious pheromones to intimidate a fellow ancient vampire, let alone this pathetic creature. “Looks like we had some kinda party here.” He paused, getting a better look at the human. Three bite marks on her throat, shoulder, and bicep. The woman’s wrist was obviously broken, and her chest rose and fell unevenly, indicating broken ribs and likely a punctured lung. Eric resisted the urge to snarl and bare his fangs. It was beneath him to show trash like this vampire his fangs. “A party of the fun, but  _ illegal _ variety.” 

“Sheriff Northman!” the other vampire gasped, dropping Eric’s destined childe and whirling to face the angry Sheriff. The woman released a pained moan as she fell to the ground, and Eric’s ire increased,

“So you do know who I am,” the Viking observed. “That’s interesting, because I don’t know  _ you _ , seeing as you never presented yourself to me upon entering my Area. That’s a rather serious offence,” he said, tone deceptively mild and contrasting sharply against the anger Eric was projecting. 

“I--we only just got into tow--” the younger vampire began nervously. 

“Save it,” Eric cut him off. “Collect your friend and present yourselves to me within the week so you can receive your punishment for breaking protocol and for feeding so carelessly in a public place. If you fail to do so, I will be forced to involve the Magister.”

The younger man was smart enough not to argue. “Of course, Sheriff,” he grit out. “But--the silver. . .” he trailed off, gesturing helplessly to the dagger in his nest mate’s neck.

Eric raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” he drawled. Outwardly, he was nothing but calm. Inwardly, he urged the coward to just get on with it already so Eric could meet his future progeny properly.

Gulping, the other vampire didn’t argue further. Reluctantly, he crossed to the downed vampire and reached hesitatingly toward the silver knife. He faltered, glancing back at Eric pleadingly.

“Some time today,” Eric snapped, and the man didn’t hesitate any further, grabbing the silver handle and yanking the dagger out as quickly as he could. Both vampires cried out in pain, and the smaller dropped the knife immediately. It clattered to the ground, small pieces of skin clinging to it from both immortals’ wounds. “Good,” Eric purred dangerously. “Now get out of here, and don’t let me see you conducting yourselves in public this way again. It reflects very poorly on me as Sheriff.” He paused briefly, then tossed some salt into the wound for good measure. “Especially if you can’t even properly win the fights you pick.”

Wisely choosing not to respond to the taunt--though it looked like they dearly wished to--the two nest mates raced off into the night without so much as a backwards glance, leaving Eric alone with the injured human. He turned to her, considering how to approach the topic of her Turning, but she spoke up lowly before Eric could think of what to say. “The knife. . . give it to me. . . please.”

Eric paused, but acquiesced. She likely wouldn’t want to keep it if she Turned, but he could understand it if she wanted to be armed around an unfamiliar vampire, especially given that she’d obviously just participated in a rather gruesome fight. Not that she’d be able to defend herself from him in her state if Eric really wanted to hurt her. Still, he could admire the impulse. Obligingly, he kicked the fallen dagger over to the woman. To his surprise, she merely picked it up with her good hand--movements slow and jerky--brushed off the burned flesh clinging to it, and tucked it into the inner pocket of her ruined jacket. “You’re. . . the Sheriff?” the woman asked quietly, peering up at him through a pair of hazy dark green eyes. 

Eric crouched down in front of her, reaching out to smooth back a lock of her riotously curly hair, currently clumped and tangled with blood and gore. She was young, he noted absently. Older than Godric had been when he turned, but not by much. “I am,” he confirmed, surprised by the softness of his own voice. It was slightly alarming, the connection he felt with her already, before he even became her Maker. 

“Perfect,” she coughed, a slight smirk tugging at her bloodied lips. Eric’s admiration for her grit rose another notch. “There’s. . . a V lab runnin’ out of. . . the strip club. . . ‘cross the street.”

Startled, Eric leaned back slightly. Now how did she know that? It wouldn’t do for his future progeny to be involved with a V operation. “What makes you say that?” he questioned a bit darkly. 

She laughed wetly, blood bubbling audibly in her esophagus. “Call it. . . intuition,” she burbled. Her eyes held his intently, intelligent despite the cloud of pain hovering over her. “‘m Olive,” she introduced herself. “You’re important.” Her words were matter of fact. 

He chuckled. “I’m flattered.” He cupped her chin, turning her head to get a better look at the wound on her neck. She whimpered in pain, and he shushed her soothingly. “You must have fought very bravely,” Eric complimented. “Not many humans could fend off three vampires at once, let alone incapacitate or kill one.” He stroked her cheekbone, staring straight into her eyes. “I wish I could have seen it. It must have been. . . beautiful.”

Olive choked out a chuckle to mirror his. “Now who’s. . . flattering who?” Her chortles tapered off after a moment, and she furrowed her eyebrows, still examining his face. “Why are you. . . so important?” she whispered, almost to herself. Then she hacked out a cough, leaning to the side to spit out blood and mucus, chest heaving. A low, steady whine escaped from between her bloodied teeth as she dragged herself up into a sitting position. 

Eric pursed his lips. “You’re looking kind of rough there, little breather,” he said. Aw fuck, that wasn’t what he’d meant to say. How was he supposed to broach this topic? Pam had  _ asked _ him to turn her, he had no frame of reference for this conversation. What was he supposed to do?

“Not sure I’ll be. . . breathing much longer,” Olive joked morbidly.

Fuck it. She was fading fast. Eric would just have to take the plunge. “I don’t know about breathing,” he began, “but how would you like to continue living?”

Olive quirked a dark eyebrow. “You offerin’. . . to heal me? Thought you vamps were. . . more particular. . . ‘bout your blood?”

No seriously,  _ how _ did she know that? Vampires were very protective of the knowledge of their blood’s healing properties, lest they be literally sucked dry by the medical industry. Regular drainers were bad enough as it was. Combined with her knowledge of the V lab, Olive’s knowledge wasn’t painting a very pretty picture. But Eric’s destined progeny was dying right in front of him, and he had to act quickly. He could always command an explanation out of her later if need be. Not allowing his confusion to show, Eric answered her implied question. “Oh we’re very particular, and I’m not offering to heal you. I’m offering to give you a new life.”

Olive gazed at him seriously, even as the light behind her eyes continued to dim. “You. . . wanna Turn me.”

“If you can give up the sun, and walk beside me in darkness through the wide world. . .” Eric trailed off, leaning in towards her face. She smelled of sweat and adrenaline, but beneath that of something fresh like the sweet air of spring, and something cool like stone smoothed over by waves. “I will remake you into something new, something better. I will pour into you a thousand years of honor, wisdom, and experience.” Recalling Godric’s words to him all those years ago, the promise he had made Eric on his human death bed, the Viking found something else to promise his soon-to-be-childe. “I will be anything and everything to you,” he vowed. “Your father, your brother, your child. Certainly your friend,” he smirked, “or even your lover. Whatever you need.” Eric paused, caressing Olive’s jaw. “Do you understand?”

Olive considered him seriously. Trapped in her gaze, Eric could feel her heavy judgement weighing down around him. It was a heady sensation. “. . . No,” she said eventually, and Eric’s stomach dropped, but she continued before he could react further. “Father. . . brother . . . friend. I don’t understand . . . any of those things. . .” she breathed out, eyelids fluttering. Her wounds continued to bleed sluggishly, leaking her precious life out onto the ground. 

Eric’s heart leapt, and he exhaled sharply in relief. She wasn’t rejecting him, just answering his question. “That’s alright. I’ll teach you everything you need to know,” he assured her, leaning in even closer to trail the tip of his nose down her cheek, along her jawline, down the unmarred side of her neck.

She hummed. “Okay,” she murmured, eyes slipping shut as she came to her decision. “Do it.”

And Eric dropped his fangs and dug them into the delicate skin of her throat.


	2. Rebirth and Renewal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olive wakes to a strange new world. Good thing she's always been a quick learner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I forgot to say it last time, so for the record, I do not own True Blood or Southern Vampire Mysteries. Next, thank you all so much for your lovely reviews/comments! It's really encouraging to receive feedback. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Olive woke to a suffocating pressure surrounding her. She inhaled out of habit (though she felt no particular urge to breathe) and immediately regretted it as her lungs filled with dirt. She lashed out wildly, panicked, and felt her limbs tear through loose soil. Pushing upwards desperately, Olive felt the tips of her fingers break through into open air and she hurled her shoulders in that same direction. After a moment of frantic wiggling, her head and neck busted up through the surface of the earth. She hacked and coughed and spit soil from her mouth and lungs. Chest burning, feeling like she’d inhaled glass, Olive hauled her arms up out of the dirt and dragged herself out of the shallow grave she’d been buried in. Her entire body shook with residual terror. She squeezed her eyes shut, reaching up with quivering hands to brush the earth out of her eyelashes. What the fuck? What the fuck, _what the_ _fuck_!

“It’s alright,” a low voice said soothingly as a large pair of hands lightly grasped Olive’s shoulders. She twitched instinctively, but didn’t feel at all afraid--unusual, given Olive’s typical experiences with men. And this was certainly a male voice. Deep and vaguely familiar, it brought forward a peculiar sensation that Olive hadn’t been aware of until the man spoke. A strange pull at her chest, a connection extending outward from behind her breast bone, and the knowledge etched into her very being that she could trust the person at the other end of the tether implicitly. Now  _ that _ was an unnatural feeling, one that sent the first stirrings of unease throughout Olive’s body. She tensed. “No, no, you don’t need to be afraid,” the voice assured her, and an odd, comforting warmth suddenly seemed to spread throughout Olive’s chest from that new connection. 

A new instinct bloomed behind Olive’s heart, one she didn’t recognize. It felt different than the instinct that had guided Olive for her entire life, the one nestled comfortably at the back of her mind. This one was centered around the tether in Olive’s chest, around the deep, gnawing hunger taking root in her stomach, and around the unfamiliar ache in her gums. It was baser, more animal than the preternatural intuition Olive usually relied upon.  _ Maker _ , this new instinct seemed to purr.  _ Trust him. Love him. Protect him. _

What the  _ fuck _ .

Yanking herself away from the gentle hands on her upper arms--and ignoring the bizarre urge to whine like a puppy at the loss--Olive scrambled backwards in a bastardized version of a crabwalk. Rolling to her hands and knees as soon as she was free, she shot to her feet in a movement so quick it left her feeling disoriented. She scanned her surroundings rapidly, eyes taking in every detail (Every detail? Since when could she see this well in the dark? For that matter, since when could she see individual particles in the air, or the individual veins on a leaf at the very top of a tree, or, or--oh my God what the  _ fuck! _ ) at a monstrous pace. It took her a fraction of a second to lock onto the only other person present, and therefore the largest threat in the area. Again, she ignored her new animalistic instinct, which for some reason objected to labeling a  _ goddamn fucking massive vampire  _ as a threat.

Olive’s trusty, familiar supernatural intuition roared to life at the feeling of her growing fear, before abruptly settling.  _ Relax, no danger,  _ it urged. Bewildered, but much more willing to accept this verdict from a more reliable source, Olive released some of the tension that had been gathering in her muscles. 

_ Yes, Maker safe _ , her new instincts agreed with her original ones.  _ Trust. _

Wait. 

Maker? Weird new urges and instincts? Waking up from a dirt nap only to be comforted by a vampire? The previous night’s events suddenly returned to Olive in a rush. The pull to come to Shreveport, the attack, the Sheriff’s arrival. His offer. “Oh shit,” Olive blurted, blinking in shock. She patted herself down, paying close attention to the places she’d been injured last night, but she found nothing but smooth, cool skin (coated with dirt and blood) and unbroken bone. She was fine. Actually. . . she felt pretty great, minus the gradually deepening ache in her stomach. Which could mean only one thing, really. Eyes wide, she returned her gaze to the vampire in front of her, who was lowering his hands from the conciliatory position they’d taken, looking amused. He too was coated in a thin layer of grime.

“Welcome, Olive,” he drawled quietly, and she shuddered at the sound of her name on his lips, brand-spanking-new  _ vampire _ instincts pleased at the acknowledgement from her Maker. Olive knew more about vampires than the average human did (Though she wasn’t human anymore, was she? More than the average baby vamp, then. Hmm. There’d be time to process that later.), including the fact that Makers and their progeny were bound through blood and magic on a deeply spiritual level. She’d never expected it to feel like this, though. Like the man in front of her was. . . nothing short of everything. 

It was terrifying, but undeniably intoxicating. 

“I take it you remember what happened,” the man continued, eyes locked onto her. The stare of an apex predator should have frightened her, but Olive’s traitorous instincts remained unconcerned.

“I do, Sheriff,” Olive said after a moment’s pause, only to be taken aback at the sound of her own voice. She could hear new depths within it, reverberations she’d never noticed before now. The wind picked up suddenly, and Olive did not feel cold. She twitched at the noise of leaves rustling, sounding as if it were mere inches away when the nearest tree was at least 20 yards from her. 

With a faint  _ swoosh _ of displaced air, the Sheriff appeared in front of her. Olive was amazed she managed to follow the movement with her eyes. “Eric, please,” he insisted. “There’s no need for such titles between the two of us. Though if you insist, you may call me Maker.” Eric smirked. “Or Master?”

Olive grimaced. His playful emotions brushed up against her within their connection, giving her the foreign urge to laugh. Even though he meant it as a joke, his words reminded her of a less pleasant facet of the Maker-progeny bond: the Command. Olive had witnessed it first hand, and no desire to experience it herself. Against her vampire instinct’s insistence, some of her agitation returned. “Let’s just. . . stick with Eric for now.” God, her stomach was  _ really _ starting to hurt.

Her Maker tilted his head to the side, lizard-like, examining her with piercing eyes. Hmm, they were. . . very blue. “You’re wary of me,” Eric hummed. “You shouldn’t be. You should trust me implicitly.”

_ Trust, trust, trust,  _ vampire Olive urged. 

_ No danger, _ psychic Olive agreed.

_ Ugh, fine,  _ regular Olive capitulated, shortly followed by,  _ Aw fuck, I’ve finally cracked, haven’t I? _

“I do trust you,” she admitted eventually. “Or at least, I feel like I should. That’s what’s freaking me out.”

He smirked. “Not being a vampire?”

“Ah.” Olive faltered. “Well, no, not really. I agreed to that, after all. And it’s not like my other options were all that appealing.” Her other options having been death. Well, True Death, that is. 

A small, pleased smile took over Eric’s face. “Good,” he said kindly. “You’ll get used to the bond, don’t worry. I found it disconcerting when I first Turned as well.” Olive couldn’t pretend not to find that reassuring. “Do you remember what I told you last night?”

“That I looked like shit?” Olive suggested dryly.

Eric barked out a loud, deep laugh, and Olive cracked an automatic smile at the sound. “After that,” he chortled, laughter eventually trailing off until all that remained of it was a sincere grin. His gaze softened, and he reached up--slowly, broadcasting his movements--to cup Olive’s cheek and stroke it gently. Her new, powerful sense of smell was quickly overwhelmed by his scent. Sea spray, burnished wood, and freshly cut pine. She barely resisted the urge to press her nose against his wrist. Eric towered over her, pressed nearly chest to chest, and Olive really should have felt intimidated. Everything she’d ever learned about people, about men in particular, told her to be afraid. But both sets of her instincts were quiet, content to rest in his arms.  _ Safe _ , they told her, and she couldn’t help but agree. It was a new feeling; Olive hadn’t been safe in a very long time.

“Father. Brother. Child,” she recited, voice pitched low. “Friend.” Olive quirked a brow. “Lover,” she drawled, and Eric chuckled again. “I’ve gotta admit, that last one’s the only one I’ve got much experience with.”

“Do you now?” he asked teasingly, threading a strong arm around her waist and twining a lock of her curly hair around one of his long, pale fingers (Oh, it was gonna be hell to get all this muck out of her mane. It was difficult enough to wash on a good day!). But he dropped the flirtatious veneer quickly enough, no doubt sensing through their new bond that Olive wasn’t quite down for that at the moment. Maybe later. Eric smiled reassuringly. “As for the rest. . . Well, we’ve got all the time in the world. You’ll learn.”

They did, didn’t they? That was a new feeling. “Yeah,” Olive said a bit breathlessly, a small spark of something hopeful and awed taking root in her chest. “I’m starting to think I might.” 

Olive’s life had been going nowhere fast for a long time with no resources, no support system, no place to call home, and no particular hope that things would ever improve. Now. . . well if she understood vampire dynamics properly (and she’d made it a point to be informed about such things after her first forays into the supernatural had nearly ended in disaster), she might have all of those things now. This, she realized, was the opportunity her instincts had sensed and drawn her towards. Not just the chance to become a vampire--which she hadn’t really given much thought to, one way or the other, but didn’t particularly mind--but the chance for something that had always seemed out of reach: happiness. Security. Genuine connection to other people. The idea was a little daunting in its unfamiliarity, but Olive wasn’t one to let a knock from opportunity go unanswered. She was cautious, yes, but never looked a gift horse in the mouth. They were rare enough as it was. So, trying not to hesitate, she took the leap.

Olive leaned forward, allowing herself to rest her head against Eric’s chest as her vampire instinct urged. He rumbled out a subvocal noise of approval, one Olive certainly wouldn’t have been able to hear as a human, and Olive’s inner vampire faintly purred in ecstasy, even as her preexisting instinct perked up.  _ Good idea _ , it praised.  _ He likes that. Want him to like you. Things will be better, less dangerous, easier to fix. _ Images flashed suddenly behind Olive’s eyes. A sallow, dark haired vampire snarling at Eric. A young yet ancient man standing before a cross. A growling wolf. Eric shielding Olive and another female vampire from an unseen threat.  _ No good. Change it, _ her instinct urged.

O. . .kay? Um, what the fuck? That was. . . different. Olive had never experienced anything like that before. Her intuition allowed her to make the best of whatever situation she found herself in, it told her which action would lead to a favorable outcome. It didn’t make oblique, nebulous references to things that hadn’t happened yet, let alone  _ show _ her those things. That wasn’t. . . that wasn’t how it  _ worked! _ Olive didn’t have  _ visions! _ She wasn’t a psychic! Unbidden, memories of her mother flashed before Olive’s eyes. Her fits, her. . . episodes. Her shrieking and thrashing, hurling things at the wall as strange voices erupted from her mouth.

Without her permission, a harsh hiss escaped from between Olive’s teeth. There was an unfamiliar burst of tight pressure in her gums, a brief moment of sharp pain, and a sound similar to the crunch of an apple as her fangs descended for the first time. Startled, Olive cried out and pushed back from Eric to bring her hands up and grope at her own mouth in shock.

Perfectly calm, her Maker pulled back and smoothed his hands up her arms to place them on her slim shoulders. His hands were so large that his thumbs could rest on her collar bones, and the tips of his fingers still reached all the way around to her shoulder blades. “Calm,” he ordered, and though it wasn’t a Command, Olive couldn’t even fathom disobeying. She sucked in an unnecessary breath and tried to force back the frightening, foreign rage that had risen so suddenly to the forefront in response to her fear. Easy, unruffled calm seeped into her heart through her bond with Eric, and she allowed it to fill her, pushing back the anger that she didn’t understand. Her fangs retracted back into her gums. “Good,” he praised. “Very good.”

“What the hell was that?” Olive questioned, shaken by both her unprecedented reaction and the remnants of the warning her intuition had given her about the future.

“Baby’s first dropped fang! Very cute,” Eric teased lightly. Olive felt like she should probably be offended, but, well, she kind of was a baby in comparison to him, wasn’t she? And she  _ was _ a “newborn” technically, since vampires discarded their human ages once they Turned. Still, while she would normally be fine with the joke, she was just a bit too wound up to appreciate it at the moment. Eric sensed this, evidently, as he squeezed her shoulders and continued more seriously, “Vampires are a predatory species, childe, and our lives are often steeped in danger. As such, many of our instinctive reactions to emotions like anger, fear, pain, and even lust, involve an aggressive response. Hissing, growling, baring our fangs. It’s perfectly normal,” he assured her. “Newborn vampires have an especially difficult time controlling their instincts, as you can imagine.”

Controlling her instincts. . . right. “I think I understand,” Olive said slowly. It  _ would _ be difficult, but Olive had a better understanding of her own instincts than most people did (or at least she  _ had, _ before they started spiralling into completely new territory), so maybe that’d give her an edge. She ran her tongue over her human-feeling teeth. Eugh, her fangs were going to drop whenever she was horny, weren’t they? Great. “Thank you. . . for explaining.” 

“There’s no need to thank me,” Eric said firmly, tilting her chin upwards with a finger so that she had no choice but to look him in the eye. “As your Maker, it is my responsibility, my honor, and my privilege to teach you, protect you, and provide for you in every way that I can. I take that job  _ very _ seriously.”

Olive bit her lip. She was almost afraid to ask, but. . . “What’s my job, then? You know,” she added a little challengingly when he raised a fine blond brow, “as your progeny?” She crossed her arms loosely. Olive. . . liked Eric. Both sets of her instincts  _ loved _ him. She wanted to trust him, wanted to take advantage of the opportunity he’d presented her with. And she  _ knew _ he hadn’t lied to her yet (she could  _ always _ tell when people lied to her), about  _ anything _ , but she needed to make sure she knew what she was getting herself into. She might have been leaping . . . but she was going firmly feet first. 

Eric’s eyes bored into her intently. “Your job,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, “is to respect and obey me as your Maker, and to honor our bloodline in all things. The blood is sacred,” he decreed, and the words rang in Olive’s head like a commandment. The slightest bit of unease arose at the back of her mind. Sensing this, Eric’s ice blue eyes narrowed. “Is that going to be a problem?” he asked, and Olive knew there was only one answer she could safely give.

“No,” she blurted automatically, a thrill of fear racing through her. If her heart had still been beating (and what a strange thought  _ that _ was), its rhythm might have faltered. Eric softened, the faintest touch of remorse reaching Olive from his side of the bond. Clearly he didn’t  _ want _ to frighten her.  _ Will though, to get compliance. Teach you the danger of disrespecting older vampires _ , Olive’s instinct informed her helpfully, once again providing more information than it ever had before. She bit her lip. Olive didn’t have the best track record with respect. “I don’t. . .  _ mind _ doing all that stuff, necessarily,” she explained, glancing up at Eric through her lashes. “It’s just that I don’t know how good at it I’ll be. I’ve been alone for a long time,” Olive confessed, though she was sure Eric had already guessed as much. “I haven’t had to listen to anyone but myself for years and--” she cut herself off, figuring it would be best not to announce that there would probably be moments when her instincts demanded she do something contrary to what Eric had ordered. But then again. . . Olive examined Eric consideringly. 

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” he asked, cool as a cucumber. His steady confidence helped ground Olive.  _ Was _ there something she wanted to tell him? Could she trust him with the secret of her instincts? It would certainly grease the wheels of the bonding process, and it might help eliminate some of the tension they both seemed to be feeling on the matter of Olive’s “obedience.” But still. She’d never told anyone about her. . . gift before, and many of the people who’d found out about it one way or the other had had such delightful reactions as “get away from me as quickly as possible” or “I’m going to keep you forever as my pet Magic 8-Ball.” Needless to say, Olive wasn’t eager to repeat those experiences. “Hey,” Eric interrupted her inner debate gently, no doubt feeling her decision. “I understand that you don’t know me very well, but please believe me when I say that whatever the problem is here, I just want to work it out. I give you my word that no information you provide me with will ever be used to harm you,” he swore. “You are  _ my _ progeny,  _ my  _ blood,” Eric claimed and a great flood of pleasure filled Olive, originating from her vampire instinct, which was overjoyed by her Maker’s possessive words. “That means everything.”

And Olive believed him. She sucked in an unneeded breath--distantly fascinated by the strange, hollow, whistling sensation the action created--and consulted her sixth sense. 

_ Trust Maker! _ Olive’s vampire instincts butted in petulantly. Olive ignored this. She got the feeling these new instincts would tell her to trust Eric even if he had a stake leveled at her heart.

_ Better to tell _ , Olive’s intuition instructed.  _ Bad if he finds out later. _ Again, a series of pictures flashed through Olive’s mind. Eric shouting at her, throwing a table against the wall. Olive crying blood.  _ More trust if honest now _ . Olive tracing a route on a set of blueprints, Eric looking over her shoulder. Eric glancing to Olive for confirmation while he leans intimidatingly over a sweaty human. Eric squeezing her shoulder reassuringly as Olive opens an ornate door.

“Okay,” Olive whispered. “Okay.” She steeled herself, straightening her shoulders and tilting her head back to look Eric square in the face. “I really want this to work,” Olive admitted shamelessly. “And for that to happen, there’s something important that I need to tell you.” She glanced around. They were standing in a small field at the edge of a forest of cyprus trees. Olive was certain that with her newly heightened senses--intuition included--she’d be able to tell if someone were nearby. But she still wasn’t comfortable discussing this out in the open. Plus, she was really starting to get. . . hungry. Thirsty? Hmm. She licked her lips a bit helplessly, gums aching. “Is there, uh, any way we could talk about this somewhere else?” Olive asked a little desperately. 

“Of course!” Eric said quickly, and to Olive’s disbelief he actually seemed a little flustered. She got the feeling not many people saw this side of him. “Of course, you must be starving. Forgive me, I should have seen to your needs straight away. We’ll go back to my nest. You can clean up and feed there.”

Embarrassingly, Olive’s fangs made an immediate reappearance at the word “feed,” much to Eric’s amusement.  _ Blood! _ her vampiric instinct hissed.

_ AB-positive tastes best _ , Olive’s intuition provided.  _ Tru Blood is disgusting. _ An image of herself choking after taking a sip of synthetic blood. Wonderful. 

“Okay,” Olive agreed. “And then we’ll talk,” she asserted. Didn’t want to lose her nerve, after all.

“And then we’ll talk,” Eric confirmed, and Olive had just enough time to register the swooping feeling in her gut as her instincts alighted before he swept her into his arms and leapt into the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!


	3. Secrets and Superpowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric just wants to take care of his new problem childe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so any of you who also follow "Mother Earth (Provides for Me)" will know this already, but I think that now that I'm actively writing two stories at the same time, updates will probably be coming closer to every other week.
> 
> In other news, I want it on the record that even though I'm the author, I genuinely have absolute no fucking control over how long these chapters are. I just write until I hit a stopping point man. Sometimes that's after 3,000 words. . . sometimes, like this week, it's after 8,000. What can you do?
> 
> Anywho, please enjoy chapter three, and-as always-I thank you for your lovely comments.

If Eric was being honest, then his new childe’s reaction to flight had been somewhat disappointing. She hadn’t shrieked in shock or cried out to be put down or even marveled at the sight of the ground below. Olive had merely sworn once--loudly--before settling into his firm hold and peering out curiously through her mane of wild hair as it whipped in the wind. Eric would never admit that some of it had briefly flown into his mouth.

In some ways, however, her non-reaction had been flattering. Eric had sensed her struggle to trust him after she had first awoken, and he knew that her human life must not have been kind to her. Only years of mistrust and betrayal could have forged a will strong enough not to immediately bend to a newborn’s instinct to trust her Maker. But that only meant that when Olive relaxed into his arms and promised to confide in him she was  _ choosing _ to trust him.  _ Choosing _ to believe that he would take care of her as he had promised, the way it was clear no one ever had before. The thought of her suffering brought Eric’s temper to the forefront, but if a harsh life had led to the creation of the strong and impressive woman who was now Eric’s youngest, then all he could do was thank the gods for granting him the opportunity to be her Maker, and vow to do better than those who had come before him. Olive had only been his progeny for about 24 hours, but already he was so achingly proud of her courage.

He worried about whatever this secret was that she had to tell him, though. Eric regretted snapping at her and frightening her when she had stumbled over agreeing to his terms, if only because he now realized that she hadn’t been contemplating disobedience, but rather struggling to confide in him. The last thing he wanted to do was discourage her trust in him. But he wouldn’t hesitate to scare her into compliance, especially if it meant that she understood how dangerous it could be to offend a vampire. He’d frighten her again, if he had to, though the idea left a bad taste in his mouth.

_ Was  _ she involved in that V lab somehow? It didn’t seem likely, but Olive hadn’t been concerned or surprised by most of the changes she had gone through when she Turned. Not by her senses, or by the fact that they had obviously both spent the day underground, or even by her new bond with Eric. Combined with the knowledge she had deliriously admitted to the previous evening, Olive simply knew too much about vampires for a regular human. But even before Olive Turned, she hadn’t smelled like a witch or a were or any other kind of supe Eric was familiar with. As a vampire she still smelled of sweet spring blossoms and stone, with a new hint of sea salt. A remnant of Eric’s own scent, of his blood and magic flowing through her veins. Eternally, she would smell of his claim.

Still musing to himself over what Olive’s secret might be, Eric touched down in the front yard of his nest, a large house with a modern exterior at the edge of the city. While he, Pam, and Longshadow kept coffins in the back of Fangtasia for emergencies, he hardly  _ lived _ at the nightclub. It wasn’t nearly secure enough for him to feel comfortable taking his day rest there on a regular basis, not to mention that although the club was designed to appeal to the fantasies human fangbangers and tourists alike had about vampires. . . it didn't really suit the tastes of a creature as old as Eric. He could appreciate leather and chains and dim lighting as much as the next man, but he hardly wanted to be surrounded by gaudy vampire paraphernalia 24/7. 

Eric deposited Olive gently onto the ground, watching with a faint amount of amusement as she tried to find her footing. She shot him a mild glare, and he chuckled. It was impressive that Olive was able to sense such slight emotions from him this early in their relationship. Their bond was wide open, of course, since it wasn’t safe to separate a newborn vampire from their Maker--emotionally or physically. Young vampires relied upon their Makers for support and security, and closing the bond between them even partially could prove disastrous for the childe’s development if done too early. Eric had kept his bond with Pam completely open for around a decade before he sensed that she was ready for greater emotional independence. Pam wasn’t a particularly emotional being, however. Generally, she was very secure in her relationship with Eric, and only needed the occasional reassurance of his unconditional love and support. Though she  _ had _ seemed a bit unsure at the prospect of Eric Turning a new progeny, both at the bar  _ and _ when she’d come to help bury Eric and Olive, so maybe he’d open up their bond a little wider than usual until Olive settled into their lives more comfortably. He didn’t want Pam to think that he loved her any less, just because the dynamics of their bloodline were about to change. 

That reminded him, he’d have to call Godric soon. As the progenitor of their bloodline and a truly ancient vampire, he had no doubt sensed the addition of a new member to their family and would likely desire an explanation. Eric couldn’t wait to introduce his Maker to his newest childe. The way he had felt last night, knowing that she had fought off three vampires at once with nothing but her wits and a silver dagger. . . that must have been how Godric had felt, watching Eric fight the night they met. 

“So,” Olive said suddenly, interrupting his musings on the glory of battle. “Vampires can fly. Gotta admit, that’s a new one, even for me.” She crossed her arms lightly over her stomach, vibrant green eyes glancing around rapidly as she assessed her surroundings, seemingly out of habit. That was a good instinct to have, and it would serve her well as a vampire, but Eric had to fight back a bout of ire at the thought of how such an impulse might have developed. He didn't want Olive to think he was angry with  _ her _ .

“Not all vampires,” Eric qualified, shaking off the instinctive anger at the thought of a threat to his progeny. “It’s more of a skill than an innate ability, and it manifests almost exclusively in vampires that are at least 100 years old. Some can fly, some can only hover, most can’t even get their feet off the ground.” Carefully, broadcasting him movements, he placed a hand at the small of Olive’s back and guided her towards the front door. She was tiny next to him, at least a full foot shorter than his towering height, and very slim. Had she gotten enough to eat as a human? No matter, she would never go hungry again. “It is a more common talent in our bloodline than in many others, however, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you eventually develop the ability.”

“Huh,” Olive released softly, observing as Eric fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the massive oak front door. “Any other superpowers I should expect to crawl out of the woodwork?” An odd rush of emotion reached Eric from her side of the bond as she spoke-- trepidation, pain, anticipation, and reluctant amusement--and he paused for a split second in confusion. “Besides the usual ones, I mean,” Olive clarified at his look. 

That hadn’t been what he was puzzled over, actually. That was a very strange cocktail of emotions, and Eric truly had no idea what to make of it. He could only assume it had something to do with the question of vampiric “superpowers,” and possibly whatever this big secret was. Eric was flying blind with his own progeny, and that simply wasn’t acceptable. At the same time, however, 1000 years worth of experience and instinct urged him not to press too hard. Olive was going to tell him the truth, one way or another, but evidently they had wandered into a topic of conversation that was full of emotional landmines. If Eric wanted Olive to confide in him voluntarily, he’d have to tread carefully. “The usual ones?” he probed delicately. How much did she know about vampires?

Olive looked up at him. They were close enough to one another that she had to crane her neck back to see his face. Eric pulled back slightly so that she’d be able to examine more than the underside of his chin. “Yeah,” she said eventually. “You know, super strength, super speed, super. . . everything. Plus the, uh, the hypnosis thing you--um,  _ we _ can do.” Olive shook her head, looking a bit dazed. “Damn,” she muttered, laughing a little incredulously and grinning up at Eric helplessly. “I can hypnotize people now.” 

“Yes,” Eric confirmed, delight at her wonder warring with concern about the fact that  _ yet again _ she knew something she shouldn’t. Olive’s smile waned a little as she felt Eric’s worry. “And I certainly hope that ability serves you well. Though I must ask how precisely you came by that knowledge. The glamour, along with the healing capabilities of our blood, are well-guarded secrets of the vampire community. Yet somehow, you knew about both of them already,” he pointed out carefully. 

Olive sighed, and though Eric could faintly discern the nerves bubbling in her stomach, she didn’t seem  _ too _ anxious about this line of questioning, so he figured it was a relatively safe topic. “Yeah, I guess you’d have to be pretty obtuse not to pick up on the fact that I know more than I should, huh?” she said wryly. Eric chuckled in agreement, relieved that it seemed she would answer his implied question. The idea of interrogating his new childe left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with vampires,” Olive confessed, scrubbing a hand through her mop of curls and grimacing when clumps of dried dirt and blood rained down onto the porch below their feet. “Friendly or otherwise. Some stuff I learned just through experience, some stuff was explained to me. . .” she trailed off and bit her lip, before seeming to come to a decision. “I actually, um, knew about vampires before last year,” Olive admitted, glancing up at Eric through her eyelashes, as if either seeking approval or dreading his reaction. 

Eric’s eyebrows shot up in shock, but he tried to broadcast his appreciation for her honesty through their bond. It was a very good sign that she’d parted with that information willingly. “Thank you for telling me that,” he said lowly. “But I have to admit I’m surprised that any vampire you met prior to the Great Revelation didn’t simply glamour you to forget the interaction. Before we revealed ourselves to the world, it was actually a grave offense for a vampire to allow a human to keep any knowledge of our species,” Eric explained. 

Olive swallowed, and Eric could sense her struggling with herself. “Some of them tried to glamour me,” she quietly confessed after a moment. She exhaled sharply through her nose, steeling herself, then met his eyes squarely. “It didn’t really work.”

Eric’s mind blanked briefly, even as his senses flared suddenly in an instinctive measure to make sure no one was listening. If he’d known this was where their conversation was heading, he would never have allowed it to continue in such a vulnerable location. “Let’s go inside,” he murmured, pushing open the door and urging Olive through it even as he struggled to put the pieces together. 

She couldn’t be glamoured even before she was a vampire, which was very rare. As far as Eric knew, the only humanoid species besides vampires that couldn’t be glamoured were the fae and all variations thereupon--including demons. But they were meant to be largely extinct, and while Olive had smelled nice before she Turned, it had hardly been the unnaturally appealing scent faeries were said to possess. Nor, certainly, the nearly sulfuric smell of a demonic presence. What else could it be, though? Not a faerie, not a demon. . . there  _ were  _ some reported cases of mediums resisting glamouring, especially when they were possessed. Eric’s stomach dropped as Olive’s questions about “superpowers” took on a whole new set of implications.

“Eric?” Olive called hesitantly. Eric turned from where he’d been mindlessly locking the front door behind them to find her huddled in the entryway, limbs held tight to her body and eyes glittering nervously. “Is--are you mad?” she blurted, before immediately clamping her mouth shut. She didn’t like that she cared about the answer, Eric could tell. She probably wasn’t used to having people whose opinions mattered to her.

“No,” he assured, reaching out to gently clasp her upper arms, cradling her shoulders between his hands. If her arms hadn’t been pressed so closely to her sides, Eric got the feeling he would have been able to encircle her biceps completely. He brushed his thumbs over her collarbones softly, transmitting calm through their bond, and felt her relax automatically into his touch. “Can I. . . assume that this has something to do with whatever it was you wanted to tell me?” he asked quietly.

She exhaled a slightly shaky laugh. Eric could sense anxiety building in her gut, and carefully squashed it down with several firm waves of reassurance. He was Olive’s Maker. No matter what this was about, he would deal with it. And Eric knew intrinsically that if he got through this conversation without any major blunders, he would manage to secure Olive’s trust. “Yeah,” Olive admitted. She bit her lip, quirking an eyebrow sardonically. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Cheeky. Eric approved. He smirked. “Not much, no,” he agreed cheerfully, and Olive’s tense features melted into a miniscule smile. A sudden pang of hunger echoed along their bond, and Eric realized with no small amount of surprise and pride that Olive had been repressing her need to feed all this time. That was very impressive, for a newborn. At any given moment, around 45% of a young vampire’s consciousness was usually devoted to the urge to hunt. More, if they hadn’t fed recently. Olive was brand new, fresh out of the grave. Not even a single drop of blood had touched her lips, she must have been starving. . . yet she was able to put her hunger out of mind to the point that Eric couldn’t sense it through their bond. Pride surged throughout the Viking. His progeny was a natural. “Let’s get you something to eat,” he insisted, grinning broadly. Olive seemed perplexed by his sudden giddiness, but her eagerness at the thought of blood (and her confusion at that eagerness) stopped her from questioning it. “We can continue this conversation in the kitchen, once you have some blood in you.” Her wellbeing was Eric’s priority, even though his curiosity was growing by the minute.

Eric ushered Olive through his nest, toward the kitchen at the back of the house, watching with idle amusement and a surprising amount of fondness as she examined her surroundings. The house’s exterior may have been modern and angular--even somewhat harsh--but inside was awash with deep, warm colors and rich, dark wood. Much of the furniture was hand carved by either Godric or Eric himself, and large furs and pelts were arranged tastefully, yet comfortably over plush leather couches and chairs. Pam’s touch was most evident in other areas of the house, such as the sleek guest bedrooms upstairs and the luxurious bathrooms, but she could be felt clearly in the main living area as well, whether it be in the delicate drape of the expensive, embroidered curtains that concealed the front windows, the clean and sophisticated lines of the seldom-used stone fireplace, or--most obviously--the fashion magazines scattered across the heavy coffee table. The table, like all of the wooden furniture in the nest, had been carved out from a single tree, not pieced together from separate parts. Accordingly, it was far too thick and sturdy to be easily broken up for the purpose of making wooden weapons. 

Olive slowed as they passed the cushy green armchair Pam liked to sit in when she read, hovering for a moment with a furrowed brow before inhaling deeply. She blinked, something unidentifiable passing behind her eyes. “Someone else lives here,” she said with surety. “I can. . . smell them.” 

For some reason, Eric wasn’t convinced that her sense of smell had been all that told Olive the nest had another inhabitant. Setting that aside however, Eric could tell the idea of a stranger living in her Maker’s nest--a place her instincts would be telling Olive was  _ hers _ , at least in part--made Olive a little nervous, so he didn’t hesitate to put her mind to rest. “That would be my firstborn, Pamela,” he explained. “Your sister,” Eric elaborated when Olive didn’t feel too reassured. 

Eric felt Olive’s heart leap with nervous hope and excitement. “Sister,” she murmured, shooting Eric a wry smile. “I don’t really understand that one either.”

Eric barked out a laugh. “Oh, Pam doesn’t either,” he grinned. “ _ That  _ one, the two of you will have to learn about together.” More genuinely, he added, “She’s a little prickly, but I think she’ll like you. . . once she lets herself, anyway.”

Olive raised an eyebrow in confusion before her expression suddenly cleared. “Ah,” she said understandingly. “Jealous of the new baby?”

Remembering how Pam had phrased it the exact same way the previous evening, Eric chortled again. “Yes, you’ll get along just fine,” he asserted. “And here we are,” he said a moment later as they finally rounded the corner of the stairway and entered the kitchen. It was an immense, brightly lit space, fully stocked with kitchen tools in case any of Eric’s guests ever brought human companions. Nearly a quarter of one wall was taken up by an enormous stainless steel refrigerator, which was packed to brim with Tru Blood (Eric never drank it, but Pam did sometimes, as well as the occasional visitor) and bagged donor blood. Eric got Olive settled on a barstool and moved to the fridge. “It’s admirable that you were able to identify Pam’s scent as that of another vampire, rather than just a part of the house. Her scent is rather ingrained, after all. How could you tell?” he asked, mostly to distract Olive from her hunger while he dug around in the refrigerator for a bag of every blood type that he could find. 

“Um,” Olive began hesitantly. Eric would have to break her of that habit. It wouldn’t do for a vampire, let alone  _ his _ childe to sound so uncertain. Luckily, he got the feeling that it was mostly the personal nature of their relationship that made her so uneasy. Based on what he’d seen of the aftermath of the fight last night, Eric expected that Olive never hesitated when it really mattered. “Yeah, her. . . scent is kind of everywhere, but it doesn’t really seem like the kind of smell that should be coming from this house naturally, you know?” She paused, and Eric made an encouraging noise even as he groped for the lone bag of B-negative he  _ knew _ was at the back of the refrigerator. Emboldened, Olive pressed on. “Her scent is kind of. . . sharp, I guess? Like citrus and. . . peppermint, maybe? But it’s not chemically or artificial, so I knew it wasn’t, like, a cleaning product or something.” Eric knew exactly what Olive was describing. Pamela’s scent was permanently embedded somewhere in his hindbrain, after all, alongside Godric’s, and now Olive’s. Pam also smelled faintly of pine, an aspect of his own scent that lingered in her blood, just as Olive now smelled lightly of sea salt and Eric’s scent carried the same woody warmth of his own Maker’s. These familiar scents passing from Maker to childe served to closer bind members of a bloodline together. If, for example, Olive were to meet Godric now, they would each be able to smell Eric on the other, and they would know that they were connected by blood. Eric supposed that Olive’s nose wasn’t yet skilled enough to differentiate between Pam’s pine scent and Eric’s, which was also suffused throughout the house. Still, it was very good for a newborn.

“Nicely done,” he complimented sincerely, and felt Olive perk up unconsciously. Finally grasping the last bag of that he needed, Eric turned around with an armful of blood, shutting the refrigerator behind him. He settled beside Olive at the bar and began laying out each bag in front of her. Remarkably, she didn’t lunge for the blood, though her eyes remained locked on the plastic bags as her hunger surged suddenly to the forefront of their bond. Her fangs dropped with an audible  _ snick. _ “All right, we’ve got both positive and negative types of A and O, AB-positive, and a little bit of B-negative.” As he spoke, Eric indicated which blood type was which, and where on the donor bag Olive could find information about the species, blood type, virginity, sex, and age of the donor, and any pre-existing medical conditions the donor might have (not that Eric’s donors were every anything but squeaky clean). He reached across the bar and grabbed a stack of shot glasses, placing one in front of each bag of blood. “You should try some of each to see which ones you like most and least. I favor AB, Pam prefers A, and we both like O. On the other hand, neither of us are overly fond of B in any form, which is why we have so little of it. These things tend to follow the bloodline, so your tastes will probably be similar.” A strange moment of understanding and something like satisfaction broke Olive out of her hunger briefly, and a small smirk spread across her lips. Hmm. Curious. Never before had Eric wished quite so much that he could read his progeny’s mind. Eager to hurry things along, Eric opened the valve at the end of each bag and poured a little into their respective shot glasses, before gesturing for Olive to begin. The sooner she fed, the sooner they could clear the air.

Olive snatched the first shot glass--A-positive--and downed it, barely slowing before she moved on to the next. As Eric had predicted, she liked the O well enough, grimaced slightly when she reached the B-neg, and released a small moan of pleasure when the AB touched her lips. She finally came up for air, slowing down and running her tongue along the inside of the shot glass with a pleased hum, fangs clicking against the rim. Eric smirked as a faint thread of arousal reached him through their bond, Olive’s scent sweetening with lust simultaneously. His own pants tightened slightly, but he didn’t allow himself to react beyond that. Feeding and fucking were intrinsically linked for vampires, each a primal need in and of itself, and it was common, even  _ encouraged _ , for a newborn vampire’s first sexual experience post-Turning to be with their Maker, who would be able to help them understand and control their new urges and instincts. But for all that Olive professed to have experience with “Lovers,” Eric knew that she didn’t need him advancing on her in that way right now. 

Later, however. . .

Eric nudged the bag of AB-positive closer to Olive and stood. “Finish that,” he instructed, picking up and resealing the other bags to return them to the refrigerator. He left the O-positive behind as well, since that had seemed to be her next-favorite. “I’ll heat you up some more. It’s even better when it’s hot.” He winked over his shoulder at her, snagging two more bags of AB from the fridge and moving towards the electric stove to warm them in a pot of hot water. The microwave was fine for Tru Blood, since it was garbage anyway, but it stripped nutrients from donor blood just like it stripped them from human food. And as a newborn, Olive needed all the nutrients she could get. Eric turned away from the stove top after he got things set up, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms to watch Olive pick up the remaining AB blood eagerly. “Don’t bite it,” he ordered when it looked like she’d do just that. She shot him an irritated glare, but obeyed. Good. “Your fangs are harder to use then you’d think. Don’t try to bite anything until I teach you. You can pour that into a glass or drink it from the tube,” Eric advised, nodding towards the bag.

Impatiently, Olive brought the bag to her lips, sucking hard on the tube that would normally connect the blood bag to an IV. She gulped the blood down through it as if the tube were a straw, instinctively massaging the bag to get the blood flowing easier, expression blissful. Eric watched proudly as she fed. Quickly, Olive finished the first bag and moved on to the O-positive. She drank with slightly less gusto, but still enthusiastically, and by the time she reached the end of the second bag, she seemed much calmer. Her hunger receded back to a corner of her mind that Eric could only just sense. She wanted more, he could tell. But she could wait, if she had to.

“Your self-control is impressive,” Eric said, fishing the warmed blood bags out of the water gingerly. He passed one to Olive, smiling at her surprise when the hot bag didn’t burn her hands. Eric showed her how to twist the valve off the end by demonstrating with his own, then sat down beside her so they could feed together. Communal feeding was an important bonding experience for young vampires. It would be better with a live donor, but bagged blood would do for now. “We might be able to move on to feeding from the vein quicker than I thought.”

Olive grimaced, eyes going distant for half a second. A peculiar sensation raced across their bond, one he’d noticed a couple of times earlier in the evening as well. It was like an echo of an emotion. The faintest impression of anger, lust, excitement rushed through Olive’s mind. She wasn’t feeling it actively, Eric didn’t think, but the emotions were somehow there, just on the edge of her consciousness. “Maybe not,” Olive grumbled. “I’d kill someone if I tried it now.”

Hmm. Eric examined her. “That bothers you?” he asked.

Olive snorted. “No. I’ve killed people before.” She glanced up at Eric, an odd spark of humor in her eye. “Killed someone last night,” she pointed out. He dipped his head, conceding the point and smiling at how satisfied she was with herself. “I don’t really have a problem with  _ that _ . . . which is why I’d kill anyone I tried to feed from right now. If I didn’t have a problem with killing people to ensure my own survival when I was  _ human _ , I definitely wouldn’t have a problem doing it now. And I’ve uh, got a  _ feeling _ people are kind of just gonna look like food to me for a while, so if I tried to eat one I’d. . . well I’d probably eat a little too much. And I don’t want to make trouble for you,” she finished with a sheepish little shrug.

Oh, she was going to be  _ glorious. _

Eric smirked, pleased with her admission of bloodlust. Olive was going to make a  _ fantastic _ vampire, he was sure of it. “It wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he insisted, bumping her shoulder. “But we can wait a couple days, if you’re so sure. Though,” he said warningly, “you  _ will _ have to learn eventually.”

Olive nodded agreeably, nursing her third blood bag. A long moment of quiet spread throughout the kitchen, broken only by the crinkle of plastic and the low, slight sounds of Olive and Eric drinking. Eric observed as his progeny lightly traced the swirls of white and gray in the black marble bartop, feeling the tension begin to build in her gut again as it became clear to them both that the moment for frank discussion was upon them.

Should he begin? It might help encourage her to speak up, but Eric didn’t quite know what this conversation was going to be about. He could hazard a guess that it had something to do with why Olive couldn’t be glamoured, but beyond that he only had inferences to guide him. Had she been a medium, and wanted to talk about whether or not she would still be able to commune with the spirits now that she was a vampire? Or was it something else entirely? How deeply embedded in the supernatural community had Olive been even before she Turned?

Olive interrupted his thoughts, speaking up to begin the conversation herself, though it was clear she wasn’t fully prepared to do so. “I know that vampires are usually encouraged to let go of their human lives, to better embrace this whole idea of. . . rebirth, of a second chance. But I, um, I think mine was different enough that it’s. . . probably still gonna be important.” She swallowed, pressing her eyes closed briefly before she inhaled deeply, needlessly, bracingly. Her hands spasmed with anxiety, and she squeezed them into a tight fist. Carefully, Eric slid his own hand over the counter to cradle hers. He swept his thumb comfortingly over her knuckles, sensing that an interjection would not be welcome at this point. Olive turned her own hand over to grasp his tightly, and powered forward. “In fact, I know it’s going to be important, because when I was human I was little bit psychic and now I think I’m a  _ lotta  _ bit psychic and keep having these weird mini-visions wherever I think about things too hard even though I never had those before and--”

“Whoa,” Eric interrupted, putting up a hand. Okay, she had powered forward a little  _ too _ quickly. He had gotten the gist of it, of course, but a  _ lot _ of details were missing. What he had heard. . . well, it was already sounding like something Eric wasn’t sure he quite knew how to deal with. Visions? What the hell? “Back up,” he encouraged. “A little slower this time. Step by step.”

Olive took another unnecessary breath. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’ve, uh, I’ve never told anyone about this before,” she admitted.

Against his will, Eric’s cold, undead heart warmed a little. “Well then, I’m glad I’m your first.” He winked suggestively. 

Olive rolled her eyes in a seemingly involuntary reaction, but Eric felt her relaxing minutely, just as he’d intended. “My mother was a psychic medium,” she confessed after a scant second’s hesitation. Ah, so he’d been on the right track, at least. Nice to know he hadn’t lost his touch. “The genuine article,” Olive assured him, as if afraid he had been about to speak up in protest at the very idea. “She could commune with spirits, speak to them, channel them. . .” Olive trailed off. “Though usually it felt more like she was being possessed than anything as benign as  _ channeling, _ ” she said bitterly, rubbing at her wrists in an unconscious movement. Eric didn’t love the implications of that, but Olive continued with her story before he could question her. “I didn’t. . . I didn’t inherit her abilities. Not really. But there was something. . . special about me, and I always knew that, even if I didn’t want to admit it.” She sighed gustily, extracting her hands from Eric’s in order to rub them briskly over her own face.

“You were ‘a little bit psychic?’” Eric prompted delicately, trying to project heartening emotions towards her.

Olive gave him a dry look, clearly feeling what he was up to. “I always hated that word,” she said. “But yeah. I have this sort of. . . hyperactive, hyper  _ accurate _ instinct. Almost like a sixth sense, but. . . more, I guess. That’s why the glamour never worked, I think,” Olive clarified. “I would hear what they said, I could feel them trying to influence me. . . but my instinct always told me that something was wrong. That I didn’t  _ actually _ want to do what they told me. That I  _ shouldn’t _ .” She paused, clearly anticipating. . . something. Probably for him to react negatively, or disbelievingly, but Eric was too old to be so narrow-minded.

No, Eric was intrigued. This was far from the strangest thing he’d ever heard of, but it was still fairly unique. More importantly, however, it sounded like his progeny was still experiencing the effects of this sixth sense--to whatever degree--which meant he had to pay close attention. Abruptly, it became clear precisely why Olive had been asking whether or not vampires had any other special abilities; she wanted to know if hers would stick out.

Olive seemed to find something about Eric’s reaction reassuring, because she continued quickly. “It, uh, it operated on a couple of different levels when I was human.” Eric noted the qualifier, and recalled the connotations of her initial awkward ramble on the subject. Something was different now that Olive was a vampire. “It was like, on one level it was  _ always _ active, and I would just get this really deep gut feeling whenever something was wrong. Like if a specific person was bad news, or if someone was watching me or following me,” she listed. “I would have put it down to solid intuition, except it’s  _ never _ been wrong. Plus I always,  _ always _ know when someone’s lying to me.”

Eric quirked an eyebrow. “Always?” he drawled jokingly. He didn’t disbelieve her, but he was kind of interested to see this particular party trick.

Incredibly, Olive’s nerves dwindled sharply at the friendly challenge. “Yeah,” she said, putting on a veneer of false arrogance and jutting out her chin with a smirk. “Always.” She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Two truths and a lie, lightning round!” She threw down the gauntlet. “Go!”

Grinning broadly at how comfortable she suddenly seemed, Eric complied. “When I lived, I was a Viking king, I  _ personally _ saw to it that Elizabeth I was  _ not _ in fact the Virgin Queen, and I have never been to the top of the Eiffel Tower.”

“Ha! Easy,” Olive proclaimed, leaning in to shoot him a falsely pitying smile. “You  _ wish _ Elizabeth had put out, but she was too classy for the likes of you.”

Eric laughed loudly in agreement, remembering how the formidable woman had turned him down cold. It was humbling to be refused every now and then. “You got me there,” he chuckled. 

Olive’s grin diminished slightly as much of her humor left her, but Eric noted with satisfaction that her anxiety did not return. “Yeah, I did,” she said quietly. She reached out and swiped a finger through some of the blood lingering on the rim of one of the shot glasses before idly sucking it clean. “Like I said, I always know.” Olive sighed again, quieter this time, and pressed her palm to Eric’s once more. Her hands were half the size of his. She glanced at him, biting her lip. “Is. . . this okay?” She sounded so very young.

Eric met Olive’s eyes steadily. She really  _ didn’t _ know what any of the things Eric had promised her meant, he realized. She knew nothing about family, about the kind of love and loyalty Eric had vowed to show her. Olive had a lot to learn. But for now. . . “Whatever you need,” he said, squeezing her fingers gently.

Her expression didn’t chance, but he felt it when her heart lightened in relief. “Okay, so,” Olive rushed to continue. “That’s sort of the uh, the most basic level my. . . psychicness,” she made a face, “operated on before I Turned. But sometimes it would also, like, tell me to do things? As in, apropos of nothing, it would suddenly make itself known and tell me to duck, or to turn right instead of left, or that I shouldn’t stay at the motel where I was planning to stop. That kind of stuff. And then later I’d find out that if I’d turned left I would have encountered a massive riot, or that there was asbestos in the walls of the motel, or something. Or it would tell me to do something that then led to a positive outcome. Like a couple weeks ago,” she said leadingly, a small smile turning up the corners of her lips. “When I got the sudden urge to start making my way south towards Shreveport. . .”

Stomach swooping, Eric remembered the feeling of the Maker’s Call as it had tugged him insistently towards Olive the previous night, letting him know that nearby there was someone. . . perfect for him. And Olive had experienced that too, in a way, her trusted instinct pulling her towards Eric even as a sacred rite urged him closer to her. 

Eric had left many of his beliefs behind as the world changed around him, but for a moment he couldn’t help but feel as though the Norns themselves had surely carved their meeting into the branches of Yggdrasil, or written it in the stars and the sea. Eric would never be able to put words to this feeling, but he could still express his gratitude to Olive that somehow, through some miracle, she had chosen him as much as he had chosen her. Slowly, he lifted their joined hands and pressed a reverent kiss to their tangled fingers. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Olive swallowed heavily, and nodded. She reached up to clasp her other hand around Eric’s. “I think I’m getting a little more out of this than you are,” she whispered. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Olive was shaking her head before he even finished the sentence. “You would have been fine without me,” she said with surety, eyes glazing over again as those same, strangely distant emotions reverberated throughout their bond. Eric assumed that was her having a . . . “mini-vision,” and wondered a little uneasily what exactly she had just seen. “Not great, maybe, but fine. I’d. . .” She blinked. “Huh. Well, I guess I’d be dead.”

Eric’s own instincts roared with fury at the thought. “Unacceptable,” he gritted out, and Olive jolted in surprise. 

“Relax,” she said, patting his hand in a clumsy attempt at reassurance. “I’m not any deader than you are,” Olive joked. When Eric’s glower failed to lift, she coughed a little awkwardly and moved on. “Right. Well, anyway there’s uh, one more way my. . . sixth sense worked before, and I’d say it’s the most. . . complicated.” Olive pursed her lips thoughtfully, seeming to struggle to put the concept into words. “It’s weird, cause it happened so internally that it’s hard to describe. But I guess I’d say that if I had. . . a problem to deal with, or a decision to make, or anything along those lines, I could kind of. . . ask myself what I should do? Or, what would happen if I did  _ this _ vs.  _ that, _ or which option leads to a better outcome. And my instinct would answer.” Olive shook her head slightly, drumming her fingers on the countertop. “Sometimes the answer would just an urge to pick one option over the other, but sometimes I’d get. . . little details. Stuff there’s no way I should have known, you know?”

Eric didn’t, but his interest in the question managed to drive away his anger at the thought of Olive’s death in a way that her unpracticed reassurance had not. “Give me an example?” he prodded, fascinated. 

Olive hummed in thought, brows furrowed, before her eyes suddenly lit up. “Okay so, last night, when those vampires were chasing me, I thought about ducking into this strip club across the street to get away from them. The one I told you about, remember?” she prompted. Eric did, of course, and he supposed he was about to get an answer to this particular question at last. “So I was sort of scoping out my options, and I asked my instinct what would happen if I went into the club,” Olive explained. “And I just suddenly  _ knew _ that if I went in, the vampires would follow me, and then there would be a big fight because some of the people who work there run a V business on the side, and they have silver weapons and wooden bullets. If I’d gone in there, it wouldn’t have ended well for anybody,” she said earnestly. “I didn’t. . .  _ see  _ it exactly, and it’s not like there’s a little voice whispering this stuff to me inside my head, I just. . .  _ knew. _ And that’s just about the most amount of detail I ever got out of my intuition.” Olive sighed, tipping her head back in frustration, and the sigh gradually transitioned into a low groan. “Before, anyway,” she tacked on, complaining bitterly.

Eric cocked his head slowly, understanding dawning. “Because now you’re ‘a lotta bit psychic,’” he quoted. “Right?”

Olive blew out an unhappy breath. She sure did breathe a lot. Ah well, she was only new. Most vampires stopped habitually breathing by the time they turned 20. “Yeah,” she griped. If Eric hadn’t been able to sense the thread of genuine anxiety she felt at the thought, he would have believed her to be only mildly inconvenienced. But it must have been nerve-wracking to wake from a dramatic transformation, only to find a crucial tool you had relied upon for years altered in some unpredictable manner. Particularly at a moment in which one’s instincts would be so important. “It’s like Turning gave my instincts a shot of steroids or something,” Olive elaborated, the pitch of her voice raising slightly in distress. “Not only do I have a new set of crazy vampire instincts growling at the back of my head all the time, but I’m getting all these. . .  _ flashes _ of things. Images and sounds and even  _ smells _ , every time I so much as even passively ask myself a question! Or think about something for a  _ second _ too long!” Seemingly unconsciously, she started to jostle her leg rhythmically in agitation. Eric allowed it for a moment before reaching out to still her by placing a firm hand on her thigh. Obediently, she ceased, though her frown told him plainly she wasn’t thrilled about it. Olive gripped the barstool between her splayed legs, leaning forward and curling her head toward her chest. “And a lot of it. . . it’s not even immediate,” she confessed, and this time she sounded truly scared. Eric didn’t like it at all. 

“What do you mean?” he questioned carefully. 

Olive squeezed the stool hard enough that Eric worried the metal frame might warp beneath her slender fingers. “When I first woke up,” she began, voice low, “I wanted to know if I could trust you. I felt like I  _ should _ . . .” Olive said helplessly, as if afraid he’d be offended or hurt. But Eric remembered the confusion and distrust he’d felt when he awoke after Turning and found himself bound inextricably with Godric. He could hardly begrudge Olive her own worries. “But everything I’ve ever learned told me that trusting some guy I’d only just met would be the height of stupidity! And when I went to check whether I really  _ could  _ trust you. . .” Olive shook her head disbelievingly. “Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she muttered, “but first it was like there was this little voice telling me I could--which has never happened before--and then I. . . I saw all these things.” She rubbed at her forehead, digging her fingers into her hair. “Things that had to have been. . .  _ months  _ from now, at least! I mean, your hair was so  _ long _ ! And some of it had nothing to do with what I was wondering about, and it was all so. . .  _ so _ clear. Vivid. Like nothing that’s ever happened before.” Olive knotted her digits into her curls and yanked. Eric reached forward hurriedly, disentangling her fingers with his own.

“Don’t do that,” he said sternly. He examined Olive’s face, lifting a thumb to rub away the stressed crinkles on her forehead. Really, he had no idea what to say, or how to reassure her. “Do you want to tell me about what you saw?”

Olive shook her head after only the briefest consideration. “Not right now,” she said quietly. “I just. . .” She looked up at Eric, meeting his eyes desperately. Despite himself, Eric nearly smiled. His childe’s distress was nothing to be happy about. . . but she was looking to him for help, the same expression on her face that Pam gave him when she wanted him to fix things. “I just feel like when I became a vampire everything got. . . amped up. If my instinct had three levels before, it’s like everything bumped up by one step,” Olive disclosed. “What used to be level one feels more like level two now, and level two is more like level three. Which means that level three. . .”

“Would be like nothing you’ve ever experienced before,” Eric realized what had clearly been weighing on Olive’s mind for a while. “If you’re already having what sound essentially like small instances of clairvoyance--” Olive winced, and Eric shot her an apologetic glance, “--without even consciously seeking input from your sixth sense, then who knows what will happen when you. . . ask it for advice, as you put it earlier.”

“Exactly,” Olive said, voice small. “And I just. . . don’t really know what to do. Are there. . . I mean, does stuff like this usually happen to vampires?”

Eric considered the question, wracking his brains for anything he’d learned in his thousand years of life that might help his progeny now. “It’s not uncommon for particular human abilities to be enhanced to preternatural levels when humans become vampires,” he mused. “But usually that manifests more along the lines of a very strong human becoming an unnaturally strong vampire,” Eric admitted. “Most witches and psychics actually  _ lose _ their abilities when they Turn. Although,” he said, voice rich with dawning realization. In front of him, Olive perked up, a delicate tendril of hope taking root in her chest. “There is. . . one person I can think of.”

As if on cue, Eric’s phone took that moment to buzz with an incoming text message. He extracted it from his pocket, brushing some dirt off of it to better see the screen. “Speak of the devil,” he said, shaking his head. “She always knows.”

“Who?” Olive asked, voice urgent.

“The Ancient Pythoness,” Eric said, mouth twisting wryly. “A most ancient and revered vampire, and the only one I can think of who maintained any psychic ability after becoming a vampire. Or perhaps I should say prophetic ability.” Eric glanced up at Olive, smirking at her confused frown. “You might know her better as the Oracle of Delphi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Ancient Pythoness is a canon character in the books, and she has an important role to play in this story. I hope you enjoyed this monstrous chapter, and all the relationship building I managed to squeeze in. I swear to God this story is gonna be about family even if I have to beat the plot into submission with my bare hands.


	4. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olive learns more about the changes to her abilities, and comes to a couple of important realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone, I've been having some pretty bad internet issues at my house. I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy.
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely reviews, and for waiting patiently for this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

_ Practice makes perfect, but not where prying eyes can see. Collectors run rampant in the New World.  _

This was the message the Ancient Pythoness--the goddamned  _ Oracle of Delphi _ \--had sent Olive through Eric’s phone. She stared at the words. “What is this, a fortune cookie?” Olive asked blankly.

“What’s a fortune cookie?” Eric questioned in turn, brow wrinkling. 

Olive blinked, broken out of her daze. “I--seriously?” she blurted, surprise overtaking the confusion and the beginnings of crushing disappointment that had started to overtake her at the Oracle’s less than helpful message.

“I haven’t eaten food in a thousand years,” her Maker pointed out dryly. 

That was fair enough, Olive supposed. At least he’d been able to figure out that she was talking about food in the first place. Olive would  _ love _ to be able to figure out what the Ancient Pythoness had meant just via context clues, but. . . prying eyes? Collectors?

The phone buzzed again with an incoming text from the same number. Olive perked up hopefully, only to deflate upon reading the sparse missive. “‘Expect growing pains,’” she recited aloud for Eric’s benefit, frustration building in her chest. “Great, that clears things up.”

A wave of calm reassurance swept over their bond, along with reluctant amusement. “I’m afraid the Ancient Pythoness has been like this for as long as I’ve known her,” Eric admitted. “Never quite left the habit of speaking in prophecies behind, I think.” He reached out to tug lightly on a strand of Olive’s dirty hair, and to her surprise, she felt not even the slightest urge to shy away. Huh. Eric’s calm and collected reaction to her gifts had meant more to Olive than she’d initially realized. It felt like they’d crossed an important milestone. If she could trust him with a truth she’d guarded closely all her life, why shouldn’t she trust him with other things as well? “A lot of psychics are like that, actually,” Eric teased gently, interrupting Olive’s musings. 

She grimaced, chasing away the mental image of herself in a dimly lit room clouded with incense, staring into a crystal ball and spewing vague nonsense to an adoring audience. “Jesus Christ,” Olive said, snorting and shuddering in equal measure at the thought. “If I ever start in with cryptic bullshit like this,” she lifted Eric’s cell phone demonstratively, “do me a favor and just take me out back and shoot me. Put me out of my misery.”

Eric barked out a laugh, and warmth flooded Olive at the sound. She glanced away from him with a small smile, only for her eyes to land on the BlackBerry cradled in her palms. The mystifying text messages stared up at her accusingly, and Olive’s grin faded as she remembered the low-level panic that had plagued her ever since she had realized that her instincts had changed as much as Olive herself when she Turned. She swallowed. “Seriously, though,” Olive muttered, voice small. “What does this mean?” She looked to Eric somewhat helplessly, and realized with a start that she was already unconsciously relying on him to step in and fix things, to guide her through this. 

Was that what a father was supposed to do? A brother?

Eric plucked the cell phone from her palms and replaced it with his own hand. He squeezed her fingers tightly for a moment, then released them in favor turning on his bar stool so that his back rested against the edge of the counter, long legs crossed in the open air as he thumbed through the texts casually. Olive felt bizarrely reassured. “Well, ‘practice makes perfect’ is easy enough to understand,” Eric pointed out. “We were wondering if you were going to be able to get your abilities back under control. Seemingly, you will be.”

Olive took a fortifying breath, again taken aback by the feeling of the air rattling around uselessly inside her chest. She was no biology buff, but Olive guessed that since her body was no longer technically functioning (or at least, not functioning the way it used to), the little air sacs in her lungs weren’t actually absorbing any oxygen anymore. All that the air was good for now was giving Olive the breath to speak. She put it to use. “And believe me, that’s a relief,” she said. It really was. Olive had relied upon her instincts for so long, she legitimately didn’t know what she’d do without them. As it was, the idea that she’d have to relearn how they worked was daunting enough. To never have been able to use them again? Unacceptable. “But ‘prying eyes’ and ‘collectors running rampant’ doesn’t exactly sound like good news to me.” Olive shook her head. “And ‘growing pains?’ Is my. . .  _ psychicness _ gonna get worse? Er, more  _ powerful _ , I mean?” She didn’t relish the thought. 

Somehow, however, that didn’t seem quite right. And unthinkingly, almost unknowingly, built on years of habit and conditioning, Olive did what she always had when something didn’t feel right, when she wanted to better understand a person’s motives or their words.

She reached out to consult her instincts. 

And immediately, she regretted it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Olive held perfectly still, listening from behind the “Employees Only” door of Fangtasia as Eric and the queen argued. The sounds of a physical confrontation nearly had her bursting through the door to help her Maker. Only the knowledge that Eric had over 500 years on Sophie-Ann and was in no real danger from her staved off Olive’s instinct to rush to his defence. _

What was going on? Why. . . where was she? Christ, her  _ head _ . . .

Olive! Olive, can you hear me?

_ “Move. The. Blood.” Sophie-Ann snarled, and Olive bit her lip. It was as she’d thought. Good thing she and Eric had planned for this. . . “By the way,” the queen perked up suddenly, tone shifting into something childlike. Olive’s blood ran cold. “A little birdie told me some very interesting things about your newest progeny, Mr. Northman.” _

_ Olive could feel the sudden trepidation and fierce possessiveness that erupted in Eric’s chest, though she was sure it didn’t show on his face. “She’s a very interesting girl,” he said neutrally. _

_ “And talented, I hear,” Sophie-Ann added leadingly. “I’d certainly love to meet her. . . ask her a few questions. I understand she’s quite. . . knowledgeable. Gives excellent advice.” _

_ “Yes. I’m very proud of her,” Eric responded, voice tight. “I’m honored you’ve expressed such interest in my progeny.”  _

Olive! Snap out of it! I think you’re having a vision!

God, her head was  _ pounding _ . Could vampires get migraines? And her face was wet . . . under her eyes. Was she crying? But there was wetness beneath her nostrils as well. . . 

_ “Ah, but I’m not the only one, am I?” the queen pointed out, and Olive could practically hear the smirk on her smug little face. “You know, I have a bit more pull with the Authority than you do, Sheriff. I’m sure that if Olive and I become good friends--and I would  _ so _ like us to be friends--I can speak to the Council on her behalf.” _

_ Olive swallowed. “I’ll take it under consideration, Your Majesty,” Eric said, tone making it clear to Olive that he would not, in fact, be taking it under consideration. _

Stop looking, Olive! Look at me instead!

Looking. . . looking at what? How. . . how was she supposed to. . .?

_ A sensation similar to the sound of a record scratching, and the world around Olive skipped a track.  _

_ “Indulge my boy Talbot, will you?” the King of Mississippi said. His deep, false southern drawl made Olive’s skin itch. Subtly, Eric placed a grounding hand on the small of her back. “Let him give you the full tour. Makes him positively blithe.” Russell Edgington turned to Olive and grasped her hand, lifting it and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His lips were dry as paper. “As for you my dear. . . I do hope we can find time to learn more about one another once I return. I am ever so intrigued by what I know already.” _

Ow! Fuck! God, her--her skull was. . . her head was splitting open wasn’t it? That was the only. . . why was this. . . it hurt. It hurt! Make it stop, make it  _ stop! Eric!  _

Olive! You have to stop looking!

_ “Oh, you should see what we have in storage. Russell's a greedy little boy,” Talbot said carelessly as he led them through the king’s vast mansion. Olive tried not to let her distaste at the opulence show. “He wants what he wants and he takes it. He's the same way about people.” The king’s consort sneered down at Olive. It felt more like a child’s pout than anything else. “Watch out, darling, or he might add you to his collection. He’s been thinking about you for a while now. I’m almost jealous.” _

Olive! Stop looking and wake up.  _ Now! _

How?! She  _ couldn’t _ !

As your Maker, I Command you! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Olive gasped awake to some of the greatest pain she had ever felt in her life. Her head was pounding sharply, as if someone were stabbing an awl into her brain. Repeatedly. Her skin felt hot and tight, like it was suddenly too small to contain her. She pressed her eyes shut briefly, groaning, and found that her eyelashes felt heavy and. . . tacky somehow. Sticky. They peeled apart slowly when she forced her eyes open once more. Arms shaking with effort, Olive reached up to probe at her face. Her fingers came away red with blood, which seemed to have poured out of her eyes and nose.

“Don’t move,” Eric snapped, and she stilled automatically, hands dropping to her sides. Her gaze sought out his face, and found it curled protectively over her along with the rest of his body--save for one arm, which Olive noticed was groping on the counter above for his unfinished bag of blood. Only then did she realize that she must have collapsed, because she was lying prone on the tile floor of the kitchen, her head and upper body cradled in Eric’s lap. He pressed the blood against her lips insistently. “Drink,” he ordered, voice tight with anger born from fear. Olive could feel his protective fury, and she did not feel afraid. Her fangs dropped, and she drank.

The blood helped immensely, and the pain faded quickly to a dull ache. Olive felt some strength returned to her limbs, but dared not move, sensing that Eric would not appreciate it. “What the hell just happened?” she asked, and her voice was rough. Olive wondered if she’d screamed.

“You tell me,” Eric countered coolly, even as he tenderly helped her sit up. His arms remained wrapped around Olive’s waist like steel bars, keeping her both upright and firmly pressed against his chest. If she’d wanted to put any space between them, it would have been impossible. “Clearly you tapped into the higher level aspect of your abilities that we were worried about and had a vision of some sort. But beyond that, you’d know better than I would.” His tone was still gruff and quietly dangerous, but seeing Olive sitting up and talking seemed to have taken the edge off slightly. She could sense him calming, bit by bit, though his concern was still prominent in their bond. It made Olive feel warm. Safe.

Something occurred to her. “Wait. How could you tell I was having a vision?” Had she been talking, or something? Olive’s mother had done that sometimes, when she was in the throes of an episode, and the thought of voices that weren’t her own rippling out of her mouth as they had her mother’s made Olive cringe. She frowned harshly, brow furrowed, and noticed that the skin around her eyes still felt especially tight. A lot of the pain from her headache had been focused there as well.

Eric smoothed a hand over her hair, pulling it back from her face, then settled his palm on her forehead, massaging gently. She moaned in pleasure, worries forgotten, and felt the last of Eric’s frightened anger flood away to be replaced by humor and a smidge of lust--tempered still by a healthy amount of concern. “It’s the bond,” he explained patiently. “I won’t pretend that I completely understand what’s happening here, but when you collapsed I could feel both your immediate emotions--confusion, pain, fear--and also a sort of. . . echo of emotion. Coming and going almost too faintly for me to notice. Worry. Disgust. Anger. I felt the same echo earlier when you had one of your. . . ‘mini-visions,’ but on a lesser scale.” His eyes darkened slightly with irritation. “What I  _ definitely _ don’t understand is why you would do something so reckless as to use an unknown aspect of your abilities without so much as consulting me.”

Huh. Was this also something fathers did? Try to make their children squirm? Well, it was safe to say Olive didn’t appreciate it, particularly when she hadn’t actually done the thing he was accusing her of. She narrowed her eyes, but tried to remind herself of what it must have looked like from Eric’s perspective. Olive collapsing to the ground, unresponsive, bleeding from the eyes and nose. . . “Funnily enough, I didn’t do it on purpose,” Olive snarked, still a bit upset at the accusation. Eric raised an unimpressed eyebrow, and it was kind of incredible how quickly it took the wind from her sails. Olive sighed. “Look, reaching for my instincts when I’m looking for answers is second nature. It’s gonna take more than a couple of hours to break the habit. I didn’t even think! I just--I wanted to understand what those texts meant so I tried to look and. . . well, I got an eyeful, that’s for sure.” She paused, considering her. . . visions. Eugh. Prying eyes and collectors, that’s what Olive had been wondering about, so that’s what the visions would have been trying to tell her about. . . Hmm. The conversations she’d seen. . . Olive’s eyes widened. “And for what it’s worth,” she said slowly, glancing up at her Maker, “I think I  _ do _ understand.” 

After Olive relayed the contents of her visions--everything she had seen, heard, or somehow just known (such as the names of people she’d never met before)--Eric looked troubled. “So the collectors the Ancient Pythoness is warning you of are people who’d like to use your abilities for their own gain, or even simply keep you as some sort of novelty object. And the prying eyes are likely those who would expose you to such parties. . .” he mused quietly. “That makes an unfortunate amount of sense.”

“Yeah,” Olive muttered, thinking of the people--supernatural and mundane alike--who’d tried to. . . collect her over the years. “It does.” Her abilities had been valuable even before they’d been juiced up on vampire steroids. It was one of the reasons she’d always moved around so much. But now. . . She glanced up at Eric, only to find his eyes boring into her already. Examining her. 

“You’ve encountered this problem before,” he observed.

Olive nodded, throat slightly tight. “What can I say? I’m a real catch.” She tried to smile, but suspected it looked rather pained.

“You are,” Eric said plainly, genuinely agreeing with Olive’s sarcastic quip. Huh. It’d been a while since Olive received a compliment like that that didn’t make her want to claw her skin off. She had a feeling that she’d be blushing, if she still could. She cleared her throat. 

“Uh, thanks,” Olive croaked. She fidgeted a little, twisting her fingers together. Eric grasped her hands lightly, stilling them. Olive’s lips quirked helplessly. “You know, before, whenever someone got a little too interested I’d just. . . leave. Get out of town and never look back.” She tilted her head back to look at Eric. He was so tall that the top of her head didn’t even brush his chin. “Guess that’s not really an option anymore, huh?”

Eric rumbled possessively, tightening his grip on Olive. Good thing she didn’t actually need to breathe. “No.”

A day ago, that thought would have left Olive feeling restricted and filled with dread. Now, her instincts--vampire and psychic alike--merely purred in happiness. Images flitted briefly (and thankfully, painlessly) across the backs of Olive’s eyelids. Eric teaching Olive to hunt, laughing and smiling proudly. A statuesque blonde woman-- _ Pam _ , her instinct informed,  _ Sister _ \--holding clothes up to Olive’s naked body and grinning wickedly. The three of them curled up in Eric’s cushy living room as the older two vampires tried to teach Olive some sort of old-sounding Slavic language.

_ Stay, _ her instincts whispered.  _ Safe. Family. _

Olive still wasn’t  _ quite _ sure what that meant, but she thought she was starting to get the picture. And she liked the way it made her feel.

Eric hummed suddenly, seeming to come to a realization. Olive felt the vibration of his cool chest thrumming against her back. “I suppose we now know what the Ancient Pythoness meant with her final warning, as well,” he said. Whatever he meant, he didn’t sound particularly pleased about it.

“What do you--” Olive cut herself off abruptly. She remembered the Oracle’s warning. She remembered the splitting, paralyzing agony of her headache, her inability to think or control her instincts, her  _ visions _ , once they had taken hold of her. She remembered the feeling that her skin was too small for her body, her brain too large for her skull. “ _ Growing pains _ ,” Olive groaned, thunking her head back against Eric’s rock-hard pecs in frustration. “God, how much easier would it have been to just  _ tell me _ that? To tell me  _ all  _ of that?”

Up on the counter, the phone buzzed. Olive and Eric glanced at each other--expressions mulish and displeased respectively. Eventually, Eric reached up and grabbed the device, displaying the screen so they could read the message simultaneously.  _ Lessons are learned more deeply when experience is your teacher. _

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Olive snapped.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Eric growled. He was angry again, but Olive could tell it wasn’t directed at her this time. Evidently the Oracle’s purposefully unhelpful interjections--and their negative effects on Olive’s health--were starting to piss him off too. “Though, as your Maker, I feel it’s my duty to inform you that telling ancient vampires to go fuck themselves is usually a bad idea.”

Olive snorted. “Telling anyone to go fuck themselves is a bad idea,” she said dryly, smirking. “No matter how good it feels. All it does is invite trouble. But if I worried so much about consequences that I only ever kept my head down and did the best thing for myself--didn’t make waves, didn’t cause problems--then I’d have no integrity at all,” Olive insisted, and for the first time since she woke from her vision, her voice sounded strong--even to her own ears.

Eric looked down at her measuringly. Absently, Olive mused that it was remarkable how such striking, pale eyes could manage to look so intimidating and so inviting at the same time. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said eventually, and Olive raised an eyebrow, “but you don’t strike me as the particularly selfless type.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Olive assured, lips quirking self-deprecatingly. “Or at least, I wouldn’t describe myself that way. Selflessness is a privilege. And it’s. . . been a long time since I’ve been in a position to be anything but selfish.” Memories of the cozy apartment she and her mother had shared above the psychic shop (“Oh sweetheart,  _ please _ call it a--a  _ boudoir _ . Or at least a  _ parlor _ . God only knows the place needs the ambience. . .”) floated through Olive’s mind. 

It had been small, just a bathroom, a bedroom, and a combined kitchen and living area, where Olive’s mother had slept. There had always been knick knacks and half-finished knitting projects and polaroids scattered on every surface, giving the whole place a cluttered look. Usually, there’d have been hot water in the old iron kettle at all hours of the day. The windows didn’t open reliably, so the place had often been thick with the smell of sweet, floral smoke or perfumed oils. . . That had always bothered Olive back then. But now the smell of lavender, or sage, or pot smoke just made her think of home. And compared to some of the places she’d been forced to stay since she left, that tiny, hazy apartment seemed palatial and clean as a whistle. 

Olive cleared her throat, forcibly drawing herself back to the present. She didn’t like to think about the past. “Anyway, selfish or otherwise, there are some things I just refuse to abide. I might not have much, but I’ve got my principles, and I’m not letting go of them.” She thought wryly of all the times said principles had gotten her into trouble when she’d followed them instead of her gut feeling. Still, Olive wouldn’t change it. “No matter what my instincts try to tell me.”

“Yes, speaking of your instincts,” Eric said quickly. Olive might’ve been offended at how eagerly he shifted the topic of conversation away from her personal confession if she couldn’t practically _ feel _ Eric internalizing every piece of information about herself that she gave him. As it was, he’d clearly been waiting for a moment to broach this particular subject, so she allowed it. “I hope you realize that in light of these. . . growing pains,” he bit out lowly, clearly still rattled over the effect Olive’s visions had on her, “I can’t allow you to use your abilities to this extent again. Not even to practice.”

Olive’s instincts immediately raised the alarm.  _ Bad, bad idea. Need visions, need to  _ see, they insisted. An image of a pack of snarling werewolves, Olive and Pam trapped in its center. A young-looking vampire bursting into blue and green flames as the sun rose. A silver stake sinking into Eric’s gut.

Unacceptable. 

Olive twisted her shoulders a little to get a better look at Eric’s face, swallowing tightly as she did so. He looked resolute, but so was she. They were about to have their first clash over Olive’s obedience, weren’t they? Fun. “Eric,” Olive said, keeping her voice carefully calm and respectful. “You know that isn’t a good idea. My instincts are telling me that isn’t a good idea. The  _ Oracle of Delphi _ told us that I needed to practice, to get this under control.”

Eric growled. “And we saw how reliable her brand of warnings are. She might have meant anything!” His lips pulled back in a truly vicious snarl, fangs dropping in anger. Olive could feel his conscious mind falling back somewhat as feral, animal instinct took its place. “You were hurt,” he rumbled, nearly subvocal. “You  _ bled _ because of her!”

“And you took care of me!” Olive assured quickly, squirming around in her Maker’s grasp in an attempt to turn around. He growled out a low warning, tightening his grip, and Olive felt the urge--originating from her pesky vampire instincts--to cower and submit. She fought through it. This was important, dammit! “Eric--let me,” she grunted, twisting her torso. “For the love of--just let me turn around!” she snapped, and he finally relented with a deep grumble, loosening the vice around her waist slightly. Olive ended up facing Eric with her bum cradled in the “V” of his crossed legs, thighs tossed over his hips and hands pressed down against his shoulders for balance. Eric knotted his arms securely behind her back once she was settled.

Olive sighed. She allowed her hands to slide down Eric’s shoulders until she was cupping his biceps instead. She gave them a reassuring squeeze (inwardly marveling at their definition) before trying again. “Eric. You’re not thinking clearly,” she began quietly. “We know from the vision I  _ already  _ had that conflict is probably coming. My instincts are an invaluable strategic advantage, I  _ know _ you know that.” Olive gave her Maker another squeeze, just for emphasis (alright, only mostly for emphasis), and saw a small amount of clarity return to his eyes. “I  _ need _ to know how to use them properly, especially now that they’ve changed so much. Not to mention that, like I said, it’s just habit to reach for them at this point. Even if I never intentionally used my abilities again, I’m sure that I would by accident. And what if that happened in public? Or without you there to pull me out of it?” Eric snarled at the thought. Olive didn’t like it much either, she had to admit. The idea of being trapped in a vision, blinded and paralyzed by pain, unable to escape. . . She firmed herself. “I need to learn how to control this,” Olive insisted. “How to use it. Otherwise, what  _ could _ be an advantage will become a liability.”

Eric stared at her for a long moment before closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. “I apologize,” he said quietly. “You’re very young. Quite literally a newborn. I feel. . . unusually protective. My instincts overwhelmed me for a moment.”

Olive smiled sincerely, giving him a friendly nudge. She waited until he opened his eyes and looked at her again to say, “I know the feeling.”

He allowed a momentary smirk before returning to seriousness. “So how do you intend to practice this ability, Olive?” When all she did was bite her lip and avoid eye contact, Eric frowned. “Don’t tell me your plan was just to. . . repeat the process?”

Olive shrugged a little sheepishly. “How else do you practice things?” she questioned glibly, then rushed to correct herself when Eric looked mutinous (and a little murderous). “Maybe it’ll get better as I go?” she offered weakly.

“And until then you intend to do what?” Eric probed harshly, scowling. “Suffer?” Olive pursed her lips. “No. I can’t allow that.”

“Well what would you suggest, then?” Olive asked.

On cue, Eric’s phone buzzed yet again with an incoming text message. Olive could feel it vibrating against her back from within one of Eric’s fists. She was sort of impressed that he hadn’t crushed it already. Glaring, her Maker extracted one of his arms from around Olive’s waist to read the text. Apparently, even though he was angry with the Ancient Pythoness, he wasn’t willing to ignore her.  _ “Use the cards,” _ Eric recited aloud, brows furrowed. He glanced at Olive. “I don’t suppose that means anything to you?”

With a jolt, Olive realized that it did. Frantically, she patted at the dirt-encrusted pockets of her bloodied jean jacket. God, she couldn’t believe Eric had let her into his house while she was this filthy. Then again, he’d recently taken a dirt nap himself, and Olive was sure he came home covered in blood on a semi-regular basis. . . Oh! There they were! Triumphantly, Olive dug a hand into one of the inner pockets of her jacket and extracted an old, well-loved deck of Tarot cards. A corner of the cardboard packet was bloody and somewhat torn, and Olive knew that a few of the cards were also speckled and splattered with blood. She’d had them for years. The cards were one of the very few things Olive had taken with her when she left home, and one of the even lesser number of those things that she still possessed to this day. 

She held the deck up for Eric to examine. “Behold,” Olive said dramatically. “ _ The cards. _ ” She shook her head wondrously, chuckling a little. “I really should have known. I’ve actually used these Tarot cards to help me direct my instincts before, when I was considering a lot of options, or something really general or far in the future.” Olive pried the deck open, tapping the cards out into her hands and beginning to shuffle them. 

Eric stilled her movements with a single enormous hand, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. 

Olive stalled. “Um. . . I was going to. . . start practicing?” Somehow, she got the feeling that was the wrong answer. 

Eric shook his head, gathering the cards and neatly slotting them back into the box. “I don’t think so.”

Olive scrabbled uselessly at his much stronger hands and fingers. “Eric! You agreed that I should--”

“I did agree,” he cut her off calmly. “And I still do think you should practice, especially now that an alternative method has presented itself. But not right now.” Eric reached up with his free hand, grasping Olive’s chin firmly between his long fingers. “Don’t think that just because you managed to convince me of your argument earlier that I’ll compromise on your health now. Or ever. Right now, you need to clean up, and rest. You can practice another time.”

Olive sighed, but nodded. She felt fine, but she could understand Eric’s worry, and she certainly wouldn’t say no to a nice hot shower. This place probably had great water pressure. And she could admit, inwardly, that Eric’s concern warmed her. She allowed him to help her to her feet, tolerating his hovering with what she felt was remarkable aplomb.

“Oh, and another thing,” Eric said casually, before harshly gripping Olive’s chin once more and forcibly turning her face upwards to meet his hard gaze. “Don’t ever disobey me the way you did earlier in public. Not only would that be incredibly dangerous, but it would also be very disrespectful,” he said lowly. If Olive’s heart were still beating, it would be pounding. “And while I might enjoy your attitude, I don’t tolerate disrespect.”

Respect was one of those things Olive had always struggled with. She didn’t like to show it to people who hadn’t earned it, even when she should, and she felt that people who had to demand her respect probably didn’t deserve it. Luckily, Eric had already earned her respect, and she could sort of see where he was coming from. He held an important position in vampire society, and his own progeny mouthing off to him in public would set a very bad example. Still. . . Olive reached up to grab Eric’s wrist and slowly pull his hand away from her face. He allowed it, and she squeezed his fingers in thanks. “I do respect you,” she said plainly. “But I can’t promise to always obey you, even in public. Because,” Olive continued quickly when she felt Eric’s anger building, “of my instincts. I’m not going to pretend I know better than you do, because you’re a thousand years older and more experienced than I am. But sometimes I’m just going to have more information than you do,” Olive explained as clearly as she could. “And that might mean that I know doing something you told me to would be a  _ really bad idea _ , or even just that there’s a better way to go about accomplishing something, or--or whatever.” She bit her lip, looking up at her Maker beseechingly. “So if I don’t always follow your instructions to the letter. . . I hope you can understand that.” Olive grinned a little. “Maybe we can come up with a code or something?” she suggested. 

Eric was quiet for a long, drawn out moment. Olive felt anxiety building in her stomach. She really wanted this to work, but if Eric couldn’t understand this most basic tenant of her existence. . . “Swedish,” he said eventually, and Olive released a relieved breath. “Pam and I speak it when we don’t want people to eavesdrop. Or ancient Norse. We can teach you.” Olive smiled widely, and Eric cleared his throat. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he added quietly. He must have felt her nerves. 

“I know,” Olive assured him quietly. Her smile broadened into a grin. “Don’t worry. Takes a lot more than that to scare me off. Especially once I’m invested.” Eric smiled in return, pulling her hand up to his lips and brushing a tender kiss to her palm. Olive shivered in delight. “Well, that wasn’t very fatherly of you,” she teased lightly, wiggling an eyebrow up and down. 

Eric smirked, wrapping an arm around her waist and resting his teasingly on the uppermost curve of her backside. “Well, vampire fathers are different,” he said suggestively, giving her ass a single solid pat. Olive snorted ungraciously. “I mean, I don’t know what your old Daddy was like--”

Olive stopped dead, blood going cold. Oh my God. “Oh my God,” she breathed. 

“What?” Eric asked, and Olive could feel his alarm growing as he sensed hers along their bond. “What is it, was that too much? Just say the word--”

“ _ Shit!” _ Olive exclaimed, cutting him off. “God, what was I thinking, how did I just fucking  _ forget _ \--?” But of course, she knew how she’d forgotten. She tried so very hard not to think about him, after all. Unfortunately, that probably wasn’t going to be an option for much longer. 

“Olive,” Eric said firmly, circling around to her front and cupping her cheeks between his hands. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Olive forced herself to meet his eyes. “It’s my dad,” she admitted, voice tight. “God, Eric, I’m sorry. I swear I completely forgot. But knowing my luck, he’s gonna end up turning into some huge problem, even though I haven’t seen him for years.”

“Hey, hey, relax,” her Maker said, projecting calm along their connection. Wow, what a stark contrast to just a few minutes ago, when Olive was half convinced he wanted to punt her across the room. “No human is going to create a problem we can’t handle.”

Olive shook her head once, harshly, ears ringing slightly. “That’s the thing though,” she groaned. “My dad isn’t human. He’s a vampire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist (says the person who wrote the plot twist)!


	5. In the Beginning, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olive is nine years old, and she is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th of July to my American readers! We have a lot to celebrate, but also a lot of work to do.
> 
> This chapter is the first part of a two-part flashback sequence, and we have some content warnings for Olive's past.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: References to and descriptions of drug use, addiction, and child abuse/neglect
> 
> To be clear, I don't condone the kind of drug use we see in this chapter, especially if you have a child to take care of. Olive's mother is a good person, but not a role model. But Olive really loves her mom, and is a child here, so I guess you can consider her a bit of an unreliable narrator.

_ Roanoke, Virginia _

_ 11 years ago _

Olive peddled her bicycle down the sidewalk at a snail’s pace, weighed down by the grocery bags piled into the bike’s basket and dangling precariously off of the handlebars. She felt about as slow and sticky as molasses in the still, humid August heat. Olive stuck to the shade as much as she could, but it was the middle of the day. The sun’s rays beat down punishingly from almost directly overhead, leaving the pockets of cooling shade small and infrequent. Olive’s shoulders tingled with the unmistakable feeling of a developing sunburn, already a delicate pink that would later blossom into a vivid, swollen red. Her nose and cheeks, she was sure, faced a similar fate.

Olive dared to lift a hand away from the handlebar, swiping at the sweat on her forehead that was threatening to drip into her eyes and obscure her vision. The bike wobbled dangerously, but years of practice allowed Olive to remain upright. She’d bought eggs at the store, and she didn’t intend to crush them.

_ No, just to cook them in their shells in the hundred degree heat _ , Olive thought sarcastically, glancing back at the basket as she slowed to a stop at an intersection and absently pressed the button for the crosswalk signal. Was it her imagination, or were the plastic grocery bags looking a little melted? 

Mom would be upset that Olive had gotten plastic bags instead of paper. She’d go on and on about the sea turtles again. Olive felt for the sea turtles, she really did, but the paper bags at the convenience store didn’t have handles, so she couldn’t carry nearly as many of them at once, even with the help of the bicycle. Plastic bags had been a necessity if Olive wanted to buy enough supplies to last them more than a day or two. The sea turtles were just going to have to deal with it.

When Olive’s mother was fully sober, she was very aware of such things, and agreed with Olive that their own circumstances were more immediately relevant than the sea turtles. But when she was a little stoned--which she would be today, since she had a couple of clients lined up--she tended to fixate on things that didn’t really matter, and couldn’t always be swayed by such things as logic.

(When she was on the hard stuff, she didn’t care much about the state of their pantry, the sea turtles, or anything else.)

Normally, the thought of being cooped up in their tiny apartment in the summer heat--surrounded by the thick, cloying scent of incense and smoke--wouldn’t be Olive’s idea of a good time.  _ Especially _ when Mom was going to be spending the day doing readings. But today, Olive would be grateful for any opportunity to hide from the sun, even if it meant whiling away the afternoon in their stuffy apartment. She’d been meaning to clean the place up a little anyway. She had this weird feeling in her gut that CPS was going to send another person by “to check up on them” soon enough, and Olive had no intention of giving them any reason to believe her mother took less than perfect care of her.

Even though, by government standards. . . that was probably true. 

Whatever. No random CPS caseworker was going to understand that Mom got high as much for Olive’s sake as for her own. How could they know what life was like for Olive’s mother, with spirits and shadows and voices constantly whispering to her, reaching for her? The drugs helped keep away the Others, helped keep Mom in control. And they were responsible about it! They even had a system in place! Mom was sober whenever she could be, but she drank poppy tea in the morning and before bed. She smoked pot around once a day most days--to take the edge off the voices, when they inevitably started getting louder--and when she had clients coming in, she smoked again or ate some of the special food that Olive wasn’t allowed to touch. That way, when Mom had to actively reach out to the Others during a reading, they couldn’t get an easy foothold in her mind!

And when things started to get bad, Olive’s mom had a series of things she tried before she even  _ reached _ for the hard stuff. Smoking some more was sometimes enough, or taking a sleeping pill, or. . . some other kind of pill. It was only if none of those worked that Mom went for the stuff in the needles. Olive hated it when she had to do that, hated the blank, blissed out look on her mother’s face. . . but she knew Mom did it for her. Because if the Others managed to take control. . . it usually didn’t end well. 

Truthfully, though the thought made her stomach squirm guiltily, there were times Olive thought she liked her mother better when she was high. When Mom was sober, there was always this. . . worry (fear, really) hovering at the back of Olive’s mind. The knowledge that, with her mother’s mind clear, the Others could come at any time. That foreign voices and words might tear themselves from her mother’s throat, that her face would contort grotesquely as she thrashed around, wrestling with spirits who sought control of her body. And worst of all, that she might  _ lose  _ that fight, leaving Olive alone with whichever dead soul was wearing her mother’s skin. Some of them were fine, walking around the apartment and running Mom’s hands along everything in sight in wonder, or stuffing Mom’s mouth with food they had missed so they could taste it with her tongue. But others. . . 

Olive shivered, a chill running down her spine despite the heat of the afternoon. She turned the bike onto her street, forcing back memories of grappling with strangers who snarled and sneered at her out of her mother’s face. She curled her fists around the handlebards, the plastic of the grocery bags crinkling beneath her fingers. 

She didn’t mind Mom nagging her about the sea turtles if it meant Olive didn’t have to see her like that.

* * *

Olive was standing on a footstool and heating up a couple of cans of Spaghettios for dinner when her mother made her way upstairs to the apartment at long last, final appointment of the day completed. Her footsteps were heavy, but she wasn’t stumbling and her eyes were mostly clear, so Olive figured she was having a pretty good day. 

Olive’s mother Iris was a beautiful woman of an age that wasn’t easily gauged by eye. She’d had Olive late in life, and her once vibrant red hair--a riotous mess of curls and twists that she had passed on to Olive--had faded to a gentler strawberry blonde in many places. She was graying (or whitening, rather) a bit at the roots near the front of her hair. But Iris had a vivacious personality and a pleasant and youthful face, with a small nose and a full, wide mouth that showcased her bright and easygoing smile. Her eyes were a warm cinnamon color, and the crinkles at their edges looked as though they could just as easily be smile lines as wrinkles. All told, even though Iris was in her late 40’s, she looked much younger than her years. Olive resembled her greatly in the texture of her hair and the shape of her face, though she had inherited her father’s more subdued coloring.

“How’s my little adult?” Iris asked joyfully, crossing to Olive and pressing an affectionate kiss to the side of her head.

Olive laughed quietly at the exaggerated kissing noise her mother released against her ear, glad that marijuana made Iris relaxed and happy instead of withdrawn and paranoid. “Just fine. And how’s my big adult?”

“Just fine,” Iris assured. She reached over to crack open the window above the sink with a great heave, straining with effort. Olive wasn’t tall or strong enough to open the sticky window, even when standing on the footstool. They both sighed in relief as--comparably--cool evening air rushed into the apartment, and the hot steam from the Spaghettios rushed out. Iris turned around to lean against the counter and look at Olive, inhaling deeply. “Ahhh,” she sighed the breath out happily. “Smells good. What’s on the menu, Chef?”

“Hmm,” Olive hummed, tilting her nose up proudly and putting on her best fake accent. She couldn’t decide between French and Italian, and instead ended up somewhere in between. “Today, we have tender, thinly rolled pasta rings,” Olive described, “cooked to perfection and coated in a smooth, seasoned tomato reduction. Accompanied by a buttery, garlic and herb encrusted flatbread,” she finished haughtily, gesturing to the toaster oven where the frozen garlic bread was defrosting.

Iris laughed delightedly, clapping her hands. “Oh bravo, darling!” She smiled brightly, eyes shining, and Olive’s chest swelled with happiness. “I didn’t realize I was attending a Michelin Star restaurant! I’d better go clean up before dinner, I’m hardly presentable,” Iris teased, winking. 

Olive sniffed, breaking character. “Yeah, you do kind of stink,” she agreed, wrinkling her nose. Her mother reeked of a number of incenses, since she often lit many different kinds over the course of her appointments, depending on what people were looking to get from their reading (and depending on how insistent and loud the Others were on a given day). Olive could smell evergreen, frankincense, and the floral, woody tones of Nag Champa in particular.

Iris slapped Olive’s arm lightly, gasping in mock offense. “Alright, that’s enough from the peanut gallery,” she joked, making her way towards the bathroom. “I’m off to the shower.”

“Leave the door open,” Olive reminded absently, stirring the bubbling sauce in front of her. They had an open door showering policy after the last time Iris had passed out in there. It had been nearly a full ten minutes before Olive realized her mother was unconscious. With the door open, Olive would be able to hear if Iris collapsed.

“Which one of us is the parent here?” Iris grouched good-naturedly. But when she hopped in the shower a few moments later, she did indeed leave the door open.

Half an hour later, the pair of them sat curled up on opposite ends of the pull-out couch, dipping garlic bread in their Spaghettios, which Olive had garnished with a couple sprigs of basil fresh from the potted plant that lived on the windowsill. 

Iris’ skin was dewy from the shower, her hair piled on top of her hair in a towel turban. Her eyes were wide and clear as she came down from her high, though the mug of steaming herb and poppy tea by her elbow would help a little. The last of Iris’ special tea blend had gone into that cup, so she and Olive would have to make some more that night if Iris was to have any in the morning. 

Though she knew her mother had to drink the tea to help keep the Others away, Olive still couldn’t even fathom the idea of drinking a hot beverage at the moment. The apartment had cooled a little with the windows open and the sun finally beginning to sink beneath the horizon, but it was still all too warm and sticky inside for Olive’s tastes. She vastly preferred winter to summer. In protest to the weather, Olive had poured a glass of icy water over her head upon arriving home, and even now--hours later--her thick, wild hair was still damp. Mirroring her mother, Olive had piled it all on top of her head and secured it with a bandana. Here and there, a stray brown curl poked out from between the folds of fabric.

Iris hummed in delight as she tore off the crusty edge of her garlic bread and soaked it in tomato sauce. “Mmm, delicious,” she crowed with relish, savoring the bite as if they really were eating at a five-star restaurant. Olive snorted helplessly into her bowl, and her mother’s smile softened into something more gentle and sincere. “The house looks lovely by the way, sweetheart,” Iris complimented, glancing around the apartment. Olive had managed to find places to either store or display their vast collection of knick knacks and photographs, and had dusted and scrubbed every surface she could reach until it was shining. Well,  _ almost _ every surface. She’d left the walls alone only because she figured it would look suspicious to the CPS people if they were only cleaned up to a child’s height. Olive didn’t want them to think her mom was using her for slave labor, or something. 

She grinned, proud of her accomplishment. The apartment had been an absolute  _ wreck _ when she’d gotten home, but now it could pass muster by any definition. “Thanks! You know, we actually  _ do _ have places to put things other than ‘on the nearest flat surface,’” Olive teased, referencing her mother’s habit of just. . . putting things down and walking away. “Oh,” she added, remembering another important detail, “and I hid all of the drug stuff back in your secret spot. I think CPS is going to drop by again soon,” Olive informed. Her mother’s current “secret spot” was inside the toilet tank in a plastic bag. To Iris’s credit, she  _ did  _ try to keep anything untoward or dangerous away from Olive, and she always picked a new hiding spot once Olive figured her out. It was just that Olive was. . . really good at finding things. She just always  _ knew _ where the new hiding place was.

“Shoot, Olive,” Iris complained, though she was smiling. “Now I’ve gotta find a  _ new _ secret spot. That’s the fourth one this year! The apartment’s not that big, you know.” Olive graciously elected not to mention that she’d known about this most recent secret spot since about two days after her mother chose it. Iris sighed. “But I guess the toilet tank  _ was _ pretty obvious. If CPS is coming, I’ll have to find somewhere better to put it, in case they want to look around.”

Olive blushed, oddly embarrassed that her mother was taking her weird hunch seriously, though she wasn’t really surprised. As a psychic, Iris sometimes believed more in Olive’s gut than Olive herself did. “Pretty sure they can’t just come in and look in our toilet tank without a warrant,” she pointed out, trying to will the pink out of her cheeks. “Besides, it was just a feeling. They might not even be coming.”

“Nonsense!” Iris exclaimed. “If you say they’re coming, then they’re coming!” She put her bowl to the side and reached across the couch to grasp one of Olive’s hands in her own. Delicately, Iris traced the lines of her daughter’s palm, a distant, knowing glint in her amber eyes. “We don’t always have to see or touch or hear things to know them, Olive,” she reminded. “You have remarkable intuition. You shouldn’t disregard it just because the idea of being like me makes you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t!” Olive protested automatically. Her mother was the best! She was smart and kind and funny and beautiful! It was just. . . Olive saw what being a psychic did to Iris sometimes. She lived in fear of the spirits, that she would lose herself to them, that they would  _ use _ her to do bad things. And Olive also saw what happened when Iris wasn’t strong enough to control her own abilities, to stop that from happening. 

Olive wanted to be like her mother. She just didn’t want to suffer like Iris did. 

“You don’t have to explain, I understand,” Iris insisted, lifting a hand to chuck Olive under the chin. “Sometimes our abilities can be frightening. And being able to somehow perceive things you have no way of knowing consciously. . . well, it’ll drive you crazy if you think too hard about the hows and the whys, trust me on that.” She smiled wryly. “But that doesn’t mean we should disregard the things our. . . extra senses tell us. Or that we should reject our abilities.” 

Olive nodded, subdued.

Iris pursed her lips, examining her. She could probably tell that Olive wasn’t 100% convinced. Olive had no  _ proof _ that her mother was a mind reader. . . but she could always see straight through Olive. Whether that was because she was a psychic, or because she was a mom, Olive didn’t know.

“You know, all this talk reminds me,” Iris said suddenly, switching from serious to excited between one breath and the next. She popped up out of her seat and bounded over to the bookcase. “I’ve got a little something for you .” A sly smile spread across Iris’ face as she pulled a book off of the bottom shelf. She opened it to reveal a cut out in the pages, which contained what looked like a deck of cards. “I’ve been hiding it in my _secret_ secret spot!”

Olive blinked, bewildered. It wasn’t often that her mother--or anyone, really--managed to surprise her like this. It. . . felt kind of nice. Warm. Iris must have gone to a lot of effort to keep Olive from discovering her present.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Iris chided gently, still grinning. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeves, you know.” 

Olive did her best to school her expression, though she suspected she wasn’t fooling anyone. “Yeah well, you might, but you also just exposed your secret secret spot.” Not just its location, but also the fact that it even existed to begin with. Olive genuinely hadn’t even suspected. “So I guess you’ll have to get  _ two _ new hiding spots,  _ and _ some new tricks,” she observed.

Iris twitched. Evidently, she hadn’t really considered that. “Hah. . . shi--shoot,” she muttered, glancing at Olive furtively. Olive tried not to smirk too obviously. Iris had no problem smoking pot in front of her, but tried not to swear around her delicate young ears. “Well, that’s a problem for future Iris, I guess,” the woman said with forced cheer. “Here, open your present!” she added quickly, shoving the deck of cards forward into Olive’s hands in a transparent attempt at distraction.

There wasn’t really much to open, considering the cards weren’t wrapped. The cardboard box bore a distinctive, easily recognizable yellow and white design. A man in a red and white robe lifting a candle high into the air, an infinity sign above his head. The Magician. Olive swallowed. Ah. Now she saw how their conversation had reminded her mother of this particular gift. “A tarot deck,” she said, trying not to sound too tense. “What’s the occasion?”

Iris sat back down on the couch, this time pressed right up against Olive’s side. “Consider it an early birthday present,” she chirped. She was very obviously intentionally misunderstanding Olive’s question, but her response was strange enough to throw Olive off track anyway.

Olive’s brow furrowed. “It’s. . . August,” she pointed out. Iris hummed and nodded, unconcerned. “My birthday is in December,” Olive huffed, starting to get fed up with her mother being so deliberately dense. 

“Like I said: early,” Iris defended. She reached out to curl Olive’s fingers--which had been limply cradling the deck--more firmly around the cards. After doing so, she left her own hands in place, cupping Olive’s as she held the deck of cards. Olive’s mother smiled at her, and there was something strange about the expression. Almost sad. “I was just really excited to give these to you. They say your first tarot deck should always be a gift. . . I wanted to make sure you got yours from me.”

_ Who else would it be from? _ Olive nearly asked, but something stopped her. An uncomfortable feeling in her gut, at the back of her mind, pounding behind her heart. Her intuition--as Iris called it--raising the alarm about something. The phrasing of that last sentence was weird, wasn’t it?  _ I wanted to make sure you got yours from me. . .  _ “And you couldn’t have waited four months to give it to me?” Olive asked, uneasy. She tried to shove the feeling aside.

Iris’ smile was definitely sad now. Not around her mouth, but in her eyes. “Maybe I’m just impatient,” she said quietly. “Your daughter only turns 10 once, after all.” Her words were soft and light and loving, and it sounded like. . . well not a  _ lie _ , because Olive could always hear those, could practically  _ taste  _ them. But something close. Those sad eyes roved over Olive’s face almost desperately.

Why did it sound like Iris didn’t think she’d be around to see Olive’s birthday?

Olive hesitated, that horrible feeling growing her stomach. “Is everything okay?”

Iris stroked a thumb over Olive’s cheekbones, tracing the undersides of her dark green eyes, brushing gently over her sun-pinked skin. “I hope so.”

That night, Olive helped her mother prep a new batch of her special herbal tea. They sliced up mint and valerian root, and crushed cardamom and poppy pods, using the strange silver dagger that Iris usually kept sheathed and displayed on the wall. It clearly wasn’t meant for kitchen use, what with its symmetrical blade and slender, decorative hilt and pommel, but Iris handled it like a pro, even for the mundane task of preparing a tea mixture. 

Olive spread the chopped herbs and seeds over a paper towel in a thin layer so they could dry out over night, watching her mother clean the knife out of the corner of her eye and trying to shake the feeling that soon the dagger would be needed for its true purpose.

The tarot deck felt suddenly heavy in her pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to anyone who can figure out where this is going (it's hard for me to tell if it's actually obvious or not, since I KNOW where this is going).
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!


	6. In the Beginning, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olive is nine years old, and she hates feeling afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone! It was my birthday on Wednesday, so I had a busy (but fun!) week.
> 
> Also, I lied and this is actually going to be a three-part flashback because I have no self-control, apparently. Sorry! I know everyone's really looking forward to more Eric (and Godric) content. After the flashback is over, the next chapter will include Pam (Yay!) and possibly Godric as well.
> 
> Content Warnings: Mentions of drug abuse, alcoholism, and child neglect/abuse. Again, I don't condone either of Olive's parents' parenting styles.
> 
> All that said, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

_ Roanoke, Virginia _

_ 11 years ago _

The next day, Olive’s father came to the apartment.

It was late afternoon on a Saturday, and Iris was downstairs dealing with her last client of the week (the shop was closed on Sundays, since business was usually slow then anyways; a lot of people were squeamish about doing occult stuff on the Lord’s day, or whatever), so Olive was left to her own devices. She sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, half-heartedly flipping cards sideways out of the tarot deck, the way her mother had shown her that morning. She wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the process, but Iris had left her with instructions to “explore the cards” and “find a spread that works for you, sweetheart.” Olive was supposed to show her mother the fruits of her labor that evening, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. She sighed, idly turning a page in the book that was meant to help Olive assign meaning to the cards--though Iris insisted she’d get the best results if she tried to  _ feel _ for the meaning instead.

Groaning, Olive scrapped the overly-complex spread of cards she’d been toying with.  _ That _ obviously wasn’t working. For the past couple of minutes, Olive hadn’t even been paying attention to what cards she pulled. Clearly she wasn’t  _ feeling _ much of anything. Not that she really expected to.

Ugh. Maybe she could just fake it? Pick a simple spread, pull a couple cards, memorize their meanings, and regurgitate it to Iris later? She probably wouldn’t fall for it (almost definitely wouldn’t fall for it), but it was better than sitting here and pretending this was going to magically work.

Or sitting here half-fearing that it was going to magically work, for that matter.

Trying not to think about it too hard, Olive decided on a simple five-card spread that was supposed to show you the results of your current path (or something to that effect; these things were disgustingly subjective). The cards were supposed to symbolize the past, the present, the best to come, the worst to come, and what would come of staying on this path. 

That seemed like it would be easy enough to falsify. Olive mixed the cards up, and started flipping. Iris was just going to have to live with it.

What was up with her anyway? 

_ Flip. _

Ever since she gave Olive her surprise four-month-early birthday gift, Iris had been acting super cagey. She was carrying the silver knife with her everywhere she went (Olive was pretty sure Iris had slept with it under her pillow last night)--

_ Flip. _

\--and when Olive had asked her about it, Iris had just smiled and told her not to worry.

_ Flip. _

As if Olive could just  _ not worry _ when her mother was acting incredibly suspicious with no discernible cause.

_ Flip. _

And worse still, Olive still couldn’t shake the feeling that--for some reason or another--Iris thought something bad was going to happen soon. Or. . . did Olive herself just have a feeling something bad was going to happen?

_ Flip. _

Olive hesitated, hand hovering over the card she’d just revealed. A skeletal warrior riding on a pale horse stared back at her, flag waving in the air even as small figures lay prone beneath the animal’s hooves.

It didn’t have to mean anything bad, Olive reminded herself, swallowing nervously. It could be. . . change. New beginnings. And yet. . .

It didn’t escape Olive’s notice that this card had settled into the final position of the spread she had chosen. And it wasn’t terribly reassuring to have the answer to the question “What will you find if you continue down this path?” be. . . Death.

A horrible foreboding feeling swelled in Olive’s chest, and a chill ran down her spine. She shook herself, but the sensation of. . . wrongness remained, despite Olive’s best efforts. 

Ridiculous. Ten minutes ago she hadn’t believed herself capable of a tarot reading, and that wasn’t going to change just because one card gave her the heebie-jeebies! Though. . . maybe it wouldn’t hurt to at least  _ check _ what the other ones meant. Just in case?

She glanced at the cards and shivered instinctively, an alarm blaring at the back of her mind. Yeah. She’d do that.

A knock at the door stopped Olive from following through on that plan. It was a strange sort of knock. Quick and quiet, as if the person on the other side was hoping they wouldn’t receive a response. Stomach still churning, Olive padded over to the door on bare feet. She wanted to feel grateful for the distraction, but something stopped her. Hand on the doorknob, Olive hesitated. Something told her to check who it was.

Biting her lip, Olive dragged over the small footstool she kept by the door for just this purpose. She clambered up on top of it to peek out through the peephole, and promptly slumped with a gusty sigh, thunking her head against the door dully. The frightened feeling remained strong in her gut, but Olive pushed it away. It was probably just lingering from the weird moment with the tarot cards.

Her father wasn’t a man worth being afraid of.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Olive called through the door, frustrated, and watched him twitch. Indeed, her mother had kicked him out of the house last time he’d come knocking, and told him not to come back until he’d straightened himself out. That had been a few months ago, and Olive hadn’t seen him since--which wasn’t unusual even when he wasn’t banished from the premises. It wasn’t like he lived here or anything. Hadn’t since Olive was. . . five? Six? She couldn’t remember.

“Aw, c’mon kid,” Olive’s father cajoled from the hallway. “Don’t make this a thing. I’m just looking for something, and I think it might be here, is all. Let me in and I can be out of here before your mama finishes.”

Olive considered this. It didn’t sound like a lie, exactly, though  _ something _ about the statement had rubbed her the wrong way. But while Olive was sure her father didn’t  _ want _ to face Iris (he was a wuss like that), she was also sure that he’d wait out there for as long as he needed to, and might even stage a confrontation with her mother if he thought it would get him what he wanted.

Even through the peephole, Olive could tell that there was enough liquid courage--and who knew what else--running through his veins for him to do it. 

Sighing, Olive hopped off the stool and kicked it off to the side again. She opened the door, but remained in the doorway, looking up at her father judgmentally. He was sweating profusely, his dark brown hair pasted to his forehead and nearly black with moisture. His skin looked red and somewhat swollen, and his eyes--green, like Olive’s--were bloodshot, the pupils blown wide. He was shaking minutely, and he reeked of sweat and alcohol and some weird musky scent that Olive couldn’t identify. She wrinkled her nose, not bothering to hide her disgust. “You look. . .” she began, before pausing. Well, the terms plastered, hopped up, and strung out came to mind, but Olive didn’t think any of that needed to be said. “. . . extremely not good,” she finished lamely. Even less good than normal, in fact. God, what was he  _ on _ ? Olive pursed her lips disdainfully, and reluctantly stepped aside to allow him into the apartment. 

Now, Olive tried not to kid herself. She knew her mother did drugs. That Iris was probably an addict herself. But she also knew that behind her youthful, sometimes goofy exterior, her mother had a spine of steel and a will of iron. Iris didn’t get high for recreational purposes, or to escape from the harsh realities of life. She detached herself from the world so that the Others who haunted her couldn’t get enough of a foothold to drag themselves back to life, using her to do it. She did it for the benefit of those around her. 

She did it for Olive. 

And not  _ once _ had her mother hurt Olive when she was under the influence. The only time Iris’ hands had ever lashed out at her daughter was when someone Other had been controlling them. 

_ None _ of that could be said for Olive’s father. 

Leon Clark was a strong, strapping young man--around 35 to Iris’s 49--who was utterly emotionally unprepared to deal with most things that life threw at him. He drank and did drugs instead of facing any of his problems head on, and didn’t bother trying to reign in the impulses that grew out of his addiction. He was so desperate for validation and direction that he was easily manipulated and taken in by strangers, or peer pressure. Leon was the type of person to fall for an email scam and end up wiring money to a “deposed Nigerian prince.”

He could barely take care of himself, let alone anyone else, let  _ alone _ a child, so he’d had a very minimal role in Olive’s upbringing. And what role he  _ had _ had. . . hadn’t been very pleasant. Leon was a rather uncontrollable, paranoid drunk, and alcohol was his vice of choice. When he was sober--or at least, not completely smashed--he wasn’t a violent man by any stretch of the imagination. Problem was, he wasn’t sober very often, unequipped as he was to deal with the world around him. 

If Leon had one redeeming characteristic, it was that he certainly didn’t think he was better than anyone else--which was good, since he so obviously wasn’t. But he had no prejudices that Olive knew of, and he was either very sure of his masculinity or--more likely--was aware enough of his faults not to think of such things, because he certainly didn’t mind a woman taking charge, or playing second fiddle to her. How could he, when he’d once been in a relationship with a woman like Iris? And they  _ had _ been in a relationship, Olive knew, even if they’d not necessarily been in love. It was more like they’d been. . . fascinated with each other. In a number of ways. 

Gross. 

They’d met, Olive knew, only a few months before her. . . conception (Olive was almost 10, okay? She knew where babies came from). To hear Iris tell it, she herself had been in her late 30s, already a hurricane of a woman with a strong personality and sense of self. Leon had been 24, already a budding alcoholic like his own father before him, and unsure of who he was or who he wanted to be. They had fallen in with one another easily, Leon enamoured with Iris’s spirit, confidence, and beauty, and Iris enthralled by Leon’s youth and vigour--and by something he did with his tongue. Whatever that meant. Olive didn’t really want to know. 

But Leon had admired Iris so much that he picked up a number of her bad habits during their time together. And while Iris made the difficult decision to drop drugs completely while she was pregnant with Olive, Leon--at that point--was only spiraling deeper and deeper into addiction.

Olive didn’t have all the details, but she thought that her mother might feel guilty about how things had gone between the two of them, and  _ that _ was why she let Leon come crawling back more often than not. Leon had been mesmerized by her, genuinely interested in Iris (and Olive sensed the feeling hadn’t been entirely mutual, not on an intellectual or emotional level anyway), and she had. . . well there was no other way to put it really. Iris had been a bad influence on him.

And look at him now. 

Olive stood by the door, arms crossed, and watched her father dig through the kitchen drawers. The utensils clattered together noisily as he pushed them about, and Olive glanced out the open doorway a little nervously, eyeing the stairs that led to the shop on the lower level, where Iris was. She pulled the door shut, and leaned back against it.

Leon practically vibrated as he searched the apartment, that’s how hard he was shaking. But the closer Olive looked, the more she realized that he wasn’t quivering with weakness, but something like an abundance of energy. His movements weren’t steady, but they were sure. Purposeful, if a bit frantic. He seemed. . . oddly focused. Oddly intent, oddly  _ strong _ for someone who looked like he was at the tail end of a high on something pretty serious. Whatever he’d taken, Olive didn’t recognize its effects. 

Leon crossed from the kitchen to the living room without stumbling once, and Olive’s gut churned sharply. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, voice almost too low for Olive to hear. Almost unconsciously, she stepped a little closer, watching Leon lift books off the shelves with manic energy, checking beneath them and behind them for whatever he was looking for. The longer he searched without success, the more agitated he became. “Gotta be here somewhere. Christ, she’ll be pissed if I don’t find it.”

A klaxon bell started going off in the back of Olive’s mind at that remark, and she figured he hadn’t meant for her to hear that. For some reason, though Olive knew nothing about the unnamed woman, the thought of whoever Leon was referring to filled Olive with dread, with the feeling of eyes and breath on the back of her neck. The sense that she was being hunted. 

Olive swallowed, and cleared her throat. “Um, maybe I can help, if you tell me what you’re looking for,” she offered, suddenly desperate to see Leon out of the apartment. “I’m pretty good at finding things.”

“Yeah, I remember that much,” Leon said, voice tight and uncharacteristically irritated. He was breathing harshly, and as Olive hovered anxiously off to the side, he pulled a small, decorative chest off of a shelf and dug through it violently, upending it after a moment when he didn’t immediately find what he was looking for.

“Hey!” Olive cried out, discomfort momentarily forgotten as she rushed forward to gather the many carefully labeled polaroid photographs that had fallen from the chest and scattered across the floor. She looked up at her father with confused anger, stomach twisting. What had gotten into him?

Leon grunted in frustration, and without warning, he whirled towards the couch in a flurry of motion. “Where is it!” he snapped viciously, seizing the cushion--which was in truth a mattress, folded in half when the pull-out bed was in its couch configuration--and tearing it furiously from the futon. The sheet that Olive and Iris wrapped around the couch every morning to keep it free of crumbs must have caught on the springs beneath the frame, because a huge strip of it ripped free with a horrendous shredding noise as Leon tossed the cushion away, a hunted look on his face. Though the mattress must have been pretty heavy, he made the action look effortless.

Olive yelped, instinctively ducking to avoid the mattress as it flew past her and diving forward to catch the lamp it had clipped before the ceramic base could shatter against the floor. “Dad!” she exclaimed, something deep inside her reminding her to keep her voice down at the last second. Somehow, she knew that a confrontation between her mother and father wouldn’t end well. His head snapped towards her, eyes wild, and Olive met his green gaze with her own, heart pounding. She hesitated to say she was afraid, because though Leon had behaved erratically and even hit her in the past, Olive had never really considered him a threat before. He was just so. . . suggestible. Easily distracted, easily  _ directed _ . This kind of single-minded intensity was beyond unusual for him. And the horrible feeling in Olive’s gut, the alarm bell ringing in her hindbrain, the awful surety that something was incredibly  _ wrong _ , that something was going to  _ go _ wrong. . . none of that would go away. No matter how hard Olive tried to ignore it. Her hands trembled faintly as she slid the lamp back up onto the side table.

After a moment, something in Leon’s eyes shifted. He didn’t soften exactly, but he seemed to become aware that he was scaring her a little, and he also seemed to regret that. Olive would know her father’s regretful look anywhere; she’d seen it often enough. He glanced around the apartment, at the open drawers and cabinets in the kitchen, the knocked-over books and trinkets, the pictures scattered over the floor--many of which included him (that’s why they’d been in a box instead of on display). 

He looked at the mattress and the torn sheet. 

He looked at Olive, and grit his teeth. “‘M sorry, O,” he said, and the nickname made Olive jolt in surprise. Leon hadn’t called her that in years. Yet another thread of unease stirred around her heart. “I didn’t. . . I didn’t mean to freak you out, or nothin’.”

Olive believed that, but only because she was pretty sure he hadn’t been thinking at her at all, for a moment there. “What are you looking for?” she asked again, instead of commenting on that.  _ And why is it so important? _ she added mentally.

Leon cleared his throat a little awkwardly, hands and arms still twitching with excess energy even as he raised one to swipe the sweat off of his face. “Ah, well,” he began, “your mama used to have this huge old dagger. ‘Bout yea big,” Leon described, placing his shaky hands about ten or eleven inches apart. “Real fancy lookin’.” He paused briefly. “Made out of silver.”

Something in Olive’s instincts clamored for attention at the word “silver.” That was why Leon wanted the dagger, she knew. The material was important. It could be that he just wanted to pawn it, get some quick cash. That would fit with what she knew of her father. But something about that explanation just didn’t feel right. “Yeah, I remember,” Olive said, careful not to let her thoughts show. Though even if she broadcasted them on her face, Leon probably wouldn’t notice. “Why do you need it?” Because Olive had seen that knife just last night, when Iris had taken it down off the wall for the first time she could remember. And she had seen it this morning, when Iris had tucked it into a billowing sleeve and taken it downstairs with her to her appointments.

Leon hesitated for a split second, and Olive resisted the urge to narrow her eyes.  _ That _ he’d probably pick up on. “I told a friend of mine about it,” he said eventually. “She was pretty interested. Wanted me to show it to her.”

A chill ran down Olive’s spine. Goosebumps pimpled across her skin as the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose. Her instincts shrieked for about half a second, every alarm going off and every red flag rising, before the buzzing in her ears drowned them out. After a few moments, all Olive could hear was her own pulse pounding in her skull. 

None of that had been a lie. Leon didn’t know the extent of Olive’s. . . abilities, but even he hadn’t been dense enough not to notice that Olive could always tell when people lied to her. Especially with the number of lies he’d try to tell her. So in this moment, when deception was obviously critical for some reason, he didn’t lie.

But the truth was somehow worse than any lie he could have told. Olive didn’t know why. There was nothing frightening about Leon’s words at face value. But something in her reacted viscerally to them anyway, and Olive knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that she  _ never _ wanted to meet her father’s new friend.

“Sorry,” Olive said after only a scant pause. “I haven’t seen that thing in a couple months at least. I think Mom might have sold it after we were short on rent in April.”

Good thing her ability to detect lies didn’t stop Olive from telling them.

* * *

By some miracle, Olive managed to get the apartment cleaned up by the time Iris came upstairs (she even replaced the torn sheet with a fresh one). Guiltily, Olive avoided mentioning her father’s visit, despite her instincts hollering at her to fess up. 

Without Leon there with his weird energy and intensity, talking about his weird scary friend, Olive’s worries seemed a lot sillier. Less immediate, and a lot more ridiculous. What, she was gonna be scared of her dad, the most pathetic man on the planet, just because she got a funny feeling in her tummy when he talked about his new lady friend? Iris might believe that Olive was a little bit psychic, but Olive couldn’t see how her instincts could  _ always _ be right, especially when they were warning her about such random stuff. She’d almost gone into a panic over a bunch of cards this morning, for God’s sake! That hysteria had probably just carried over into her interaction with Leon, since he was acting so weird. That was all. She was just overreacting. 

Still. . . Olive wasn’t going to forget the terror that had nearly overcome her when Leon had mentioned his friend, or the feeling of being watched, being  _ hunted.  _ And nor, she admitted grudgingly, would she be forgetting the dread, the anxious anticipation that she had felt when she turned over the Death card.  _ Change, _ she reminded herself.  _ New beginnings _ . It was one card in a reading she hadn’t been really trying at, in a discipline she wasn’t sure she believed in. It was a dumb thing to worry about. 

But when Olive glanced over her shoulder from where she was washing dishes in the kitchen, she found Iris staring down at the tarot spread she had left on the coffee table when she went to let Leon into the apartment. There was a harsh frown on her face, a worried furrow between her brows, and she was biting her lip. Iris looked a little concerned, a little angry, and under that. . . under that she looked a little scared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? I said that Olive's father is a vampire, but he seems to be human here. . . any ideas as to what's going on/what will happen next?
> 
> Also, here's the tarot spread Olive creates this chapter, and some relevant meanings for all who are interested.
> 
> Past-6 of Cups: familiarity, happy memories, representing Olive's happy past with Iris
> 
> Present-3 of Swords: heartbreak, suffering, grief
> 
> Best to come-Queen of Wands: courage, determination, and joy, representing the woman Olive will grow to be
> 
> Worst to come-The Hermit, reversed: loneliness, isolation, representing the life Olive will lead/led prior to meeting Eric
> 
> If you continue on this path-Death: end of cycle, change, metamorphosis, representing (among other things to come next chapter) the changes Olive will go through, up to and including eventually becoming a vampire
> 
> I'm no tarot expert, but neither is Olive.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and let me know what you think!
> 
> EDIT 08/03/20: Sorry guys but I'm not sure I'm going to be able to update this week like planned. I have to get my wisdom teeth removed this week and I don't think anyone wants me to write/edit/upload stories while I'm drugged to the gills. I'm going to try my best to get something up before my surgery, since this chapter is already kind of late (it really doesn't want to be written), but I'm not sure you should really expect it. I'll try to get back on schedule as soon as possible, and sorry again for the delay (especially since I know we're at a juicy part of the story)!


	7. In the Beginning, Part III (The End of the Beginning)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olive is nine years old. This is the inevitable conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. . . nice apocalypse we're having here.
> 
> . . .
> 
> Sorry? Uh, I don't really know what else to say. It's been a wild, crappy couple of months, so writing kind of went to the wayside. I'll try really hard not to do it again?
> 
> As an apology, this chapter is 13,000 words long. It should really be two chapters, but once I actually managed to sit down and write, it all came out in one fell swoop, so you get a megachapter instead. Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of drug abuse and addiction, mentions of child abuse, some actual child abuse (or at least trauma inducing events for a child), death, and vomit. Also I only edited half of this chapter, so potential glaring errors ahead.

_ Roanoke, Virginia _

_ 11 Years ago _

Olive went to bed early that night, at her mother’s insistence. Iris had shot her a forced smile as Olive moved off towards her bedroom, but when the girl had looked back, her mother had already turned back towards the tarot spread laid out across the coffee table. The smile had been gone, Iris’s forehead creased once more with anxiety as she steepled her hands beneath her chin and examined the cards in front of her. Olive had frowned, guts churning, but turned away without saying anything. 

Now, a few hours later, Olive laid in bed on her back, stiff as a board and staring up at the glow-in-the dark stars stuck to her ceiling in a perfect replica of the sky the night she’d been born. The winter solstice, nearly ten years ago. She and Iris had painstakingly positioned them as a project for Olive’s 7th birthday, consulting star charts and divination techniques and Iris’s own faulty memory. Usually, looking at them reassured Olive when she was feeling down. Now, all she could think about was how strange Iris was acting, how she seemed to think they wouldn’t be together for Olive’s 10th birthday just a few months away, how Olive herself was feeling. . . unsure of that as well--unsure of everything, really. 

Her stomach squirmed in guilt. She should have told Iris about Leon coming to visit. About his strange behavior, and about how he was looking for the knife that Iris was suddenly keeping close. Clearly Iris knew something Olive didn’t, and Olive’s. . .  _ discomfort _ (not  _ fear _ , because she wasn’t afraid) with her feelings from earlier wasn’t a good enough reason to keep them from her mother, even if the thought of discussing her father’s mysterious friend filled Olive with a creeping sort of dread.

Olive sighed quietly, glancing over at the small alarm clock on her nightstand. It was a full moon, or near enough one that the light streaming in from Olive’s window was enough to illuminate the clock-face. 11:37. Iris didn’t exactly go to bed early, but it was late enough that she was probably asleep by now, anyway. Olive wondered if she’d noticed that the sheet on the couch wasn’t the same one they’d put there that morning. 

She’d tell her mother about Leon in the morning. The first chance she got, she’d tell her, Olive swore to herself. 

In the meantime, however, sleep wasn’t coming to Olive. Her gut was still twisting with regret, with worry, with some sort of warning that Olive couldn’t identify. And though she was tired, it was impossible to sleep in such conditions. Every time she closed her eyes, some instinct would force them open again, convinced that--for some reason--it wasn’t safe to sleep. 

Which was ridiculous, of course. There was no one in the apartment but Olive and her mother. The doors and windows were all locked, including the ones downstairs in the shop (Olive checked every night before she went to bed, even when Iris was still awake. A habit formed after she once found a homeless man sleeping behind the shop’s counter, Iris having forgotten to lock up in her inebriated state.), and even if they hadn’t been, their business wasn’t exactly a prime target for a break-in. They barely made enough to cover their monthly expenses. Still, Olive’s hindbrain could not be reasoned with. It thought something was wrong, therefore Olive didn’t get to rest.

Groaning, Olive gave up on sleep and rolled out of bed. Maybe she’d go make some tea or something. Quietly, with the microwave or a saucepan instead of the kettle, since Iris slept in the living room, just a few short steps away from the kitchen. A little chamomile never hurt anyone, right?

Only, when Olive poked her head cautiously out her bedroom door, her mother wasn’t asleep at all. Iris was curled up on the couch, still in her day clothes. She had a steaming mug clutched between her hands--though it didn’t smell like her usual brew--and she was still pouring over Olive’s tarot reading, even almost four hours after Olive had gone to bed. Iris’s body was turned toward the door slightly, and the infamous silver dagger sat on the table, just a few inches from her hand. Despite the late hour, she too seemed wide awake.

Iris glanced over at Olive as she entered the room somewhat sheepishly, her brown eyes bright and alert. Olive hesitated. Was she. . . sober? “Hey kiddo,” Iris said softly. “Couldn’t sleep?” She didn’t seem at all surprised to see Olive.

Olive bit her lip and nodded, shuffling further into the living room. “I thought I might make some tea.”

Iris lifted her mug demonstratively, before turning most of her attention back to the five cards spread out on the table before her. “There’s some hot water in the kettle still.”

As she crossed into the kitchen, Olive caught a whiff of her mother’s tea and paused in surprise. “Peppermint,” she blurted. “That’s. . . not supposed to help you sleep.”

Her mother raised an eyebrow, seeming amused and bemused in equal measure. “Who said anything about trying to sleep?” she questioned.

Olive glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. “Right,” she muttered, confused, pulling a mug from the cabinet and filling it with water from their immense iron tea kettle. She hesitated slightly at their jar of tea bags, hand pausing above the chamomile. She thought about the promise she had  _ just _ made to herself. Olive glanced back at Iris, then grabbed some peppermint instead. “Right,” she repeated, to herself this time. Tea doctored to her liking, Olive marched back over to the couch, determined, and planted herself beside her mother. The mug warmed her palms nearly to the point of discomfort, but she continued to grip it tightly, trying to gather the courage to speak.

There was a long pause. Ultimately, Iris was the one who broke the silence. “I’m sorry to worry you,” she said after a moment, shaking her head self-deprecatingly, but she didn’t attempt to fake a smile again as she had before.  _ I was already worried _ , Olive thought, but didn’t quite manage to say. “It’s just. . . not a very happy spread, is it?” Iris explained, gesturing to the cards. Olive didn’t believe for a second that the tarot reading was the only thing worrying her mother. Iris had been acting strange ever since last night, after all. But the cards did seem to have exacerbated the issue. Had Iris really just been staring at them for three and a half hours?

Steeling herself, Olive opened her mouth to confess what had happened that afternoon. What came out instead was, “It doesn’t have to mean. . . actual death though, right?” Her voice cracked a little halfway through, and Olive squeezed her eyes shut harshly, forcing herself to take a deep breath.

Irish didn’t seem to notice, merely giving a distracted hum. “No, of course not. It’s a little worrying, but the one that  _ really _ concerns me is actually this one,” she said, reaching out to tap the second card in the lineup, the one meant to represent the present. Olive hadn’t paid it much attention earlier, too alarmed by her reaction to the Death card to really evaluate any of the others. 

It was the Three of Swords. A red heart pierced by a trio of swords and set against the background of a storm. Even with no knowledge of its meaning. . . it didn’t look great. And Olive didn’t feel great looking at, either. Hesitantly, she reached out and just barely brushed the edge of the card with her fingertip. A sudden rush of trepidation flooded Olive’s body, nearly painfully. Her breathing stuttered, and she ripped her hand away, filled with the desire to run and hide. And worse, a creeping sort of emotional pain in her heart that Olive didn’t recognize. Harsh and deep and horrible. Unconsciously, Olive reached up to rub at her chest, but the feeling lingered. She almost wanted to cry. 

Despite her earlier inattention, Iris was definitely looking at Olive now, looking worried--no longer in general, but for Olive specifically. “The Three of Swords represents suffering. Usually heartbreak or grief in particular,” she explained gently, reaching out to cradle Olive’s hand tenderly between her own. “It’s not a very nice card,” Iris murmured, “for all that it’s a common enough experience.” Now it was Iris’s turn to hesitate. “I wish you hadn’t drawn it,” she said quietly after a brief pause. 

Olive stared, her heart pounding. The new fear and pain from the Three of Swords mingled awfully with the old anxiety and dread that she’d been feeling for hours, creating some sort of novel, unholy emotional state of panic that had Olive blurting out, “Dad was here earlier looking for your knife,” before she could even think of a more diplomatic way of wording it.

Iris’s eyes sharpened in a way they never could when she was high. The reminder that she was sober and that the Others could appear at any moment did nothing to calm Olive down. “What?” Iris snapped.

And the whole sordid tale came tumbling out of Olive’s mouth, tripping its way off of her tongue, which felt slightly numb and thick. She told Iris about the horrible feeling she’d had after completing the tarot reading, about how she wasn’t sure whether or not she should let Leon into the apartment, but had ultimately done so anyway. She told her about his strange behavior, the high Olive hadn’t recognized, and how nervous it had made her. And finally, she told Iris about the friend Leon had mentioned, the one who was interested in Iris’s knife. The one who made Olive shiver with dread, who alerted her instincts and her hindbrain and sent her into fight or flight mode.

There was a long pause. 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Olive said eventually, voice quiet. She wrung her fingers together around the handle of her mug, which was beginning to cool, and took a sip of tea just for something to do. The peppermint was sharp against her tongue. 

Iris sighed. “Don’t be,” she said, squeezing Olive’s hand and tracing a calloused finger over her knuckles reassuringly. She turned on the couch to face Olive fully, and to meet her eyes seriously. “I know your instincts make you nervous, sweetheart,” Iris said, eyes sad. “I should have realized that suddenly telling you to focus so much on them would confuse and overwhelm you.” She reached up to thumb Olive’s temple, smoothing over her furrowed brow. “But ignoring our abilities doesn’t make them any less a part of us. It doesn’t make them go away. The best we can do. . . is to work with what we’ve been given,” Iris softly professed. The look on her face. . . Olive couldn’t quite identify it. But she didn’t like it. 

“I should have told you,” Olive insisted, looking down at her lap.

Iris released another gusty sigh, sounding tired and sad. “Maybe,” she granted, “but. . .” Iris trailed off. She paused for a moment, seeming to gather her thoughts. “Sweetheart,” Iris began again, shifting closer to Olive. “I know I haven’t always acted like it, but I’m  _ your _ mother, not the other way around,” she said. The words should have had a level of humor to them, given how obvious they were. But when Iris spoke, she just sounded ashamed. “It’s--it’s  _ my _ job to take care of  _ you _ ,” she insisted, looking--to Olive’s horror--as if she were fighting back tears. Her eyes weren’t dripping, weren’t even wet, yet there was a certain quality--a certain look to them that told Olive her mother would dearly like to cry. Desperately, Olive reached up to lace her fingers with Iris’s, where they were still cupped against Olive’s cheek. “And if you’re scared--especially if you feel like you can’t  _ tell _ me when you’re scared. . . then that’s a failing on my part, not yours. It means I haven’t protected you the way I should have.”

“Mom--no,” Olive objected, so far out of her depth she felt like she might cry herself. “It wasn’t about you, not at all! It was just--I thought it was my problem, you know? And that I should just deal with it myself.”

Iris swallowed harshly. “Exactly,” she whispered, bringing her forehead forward until it pressed against Olive’s. “Exactly.” She closed her eyes. This close, Olive could see each of her mother’s pale eyelashes individually as they fluttered against her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Olive.”

“Please don’t say that,” Olive begged, overcome. A horrible feeling was building inside of her, like a rushing in her ears. Part of it was her instincts, still clamoring for attention (which Olive was giving, now; but just because she knew something was wrong, didn’t mean she knew what it was, or what she should do about it), but part of it--most of it, really--was the dreadful, aching realization that her mother was not infallible, was not an unbending pillar of strength. Olive had thought she knew this already. She had seen Iris struggle and crack under the weight of her abilities as a medium, had seen her slip into drugs again and again, had seen her get so high she was nearly catatonic. But Olive couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever seen her mother doubt herself. Not like this. “Please don--Oh God  _ please _ don’t cry!”

Iris snorted wetly at the panic in Olive’s voice and--thankfully--pulled back to wipe away the moisture that had  _ just  _ been building in her eyes. “Alright, if you insist,” she agreed wryly, voice still a little shaky.

“Mom,” Olive began after they’d both taken a moment to gather themselves--and a couple bracing sips of tea. “What’s going on?”

Iris sighed and turned back towards the cards on the coffee table. She uncurled from her position on the sofa, placing her feet flat on the floor and leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, fingers laced beneath her chin as she surveyed the tarot spread. “My instincts aren’t on par with yours, we both know that,” she began after a contemplative pause. “You. . .” Iris laughed a little breathlessly. “Olive you’re attuned to the world around you in a way I’ve never seen before,” she said, voice proud and sad in equal measure. “But I have a sort of intuition of my own. Not as concrete as yours, not as explicit. . . but it’s there.” Olive scooted forward on the couch, pressing her leg to Iris’s. Her mother turned to face her, and for a moment Iris’s cinnamon eyes seemed to glow, nearly orange in the dim lamplight. “I feel. . . energy in a way that you don’t. Life, death,  _ change _ .” Iris smiled wryly. “The momentum of the universe,” she added, and it sounded like she was quoting someone. A fond memory, perhaps. “I don’t know if I can connect to the Others because of my intuition, or if connecting with the Others  _ gives _ me that intuition. . . I’ve been able to do both for as long as I can remember,” Iris confessed, looking haunted. “Either way, that sixth sense. . . that’s why I’ve known for a while that  _ something _ was coming, just on the horizon. Change,” she said, and without her permission, Olive’s eyes dragged themselves back over to Death, to the fifth card in the spread. Foreboding spun through her once more, and Olive closed her eyes, nearly dizzy with it.

Only for them to snap open again a moment later as she gaped, shocked at her mother’s next words.

“It wasn’t until your father paid  _ me _ a visit a few weeks ago that I began to suspect what that change might be,” Iris admitted, lips twisting self-deprecatingly when Olive shot her an astonished look. “Now you see why I can’t be mad at you for keeping what happened this afternoon a secret,” she chuckled softly, tweaking Olive’s nose. “I’m not that much of a hypocrite.”

Olive spluttered briefly, words escaping her. “But--you kicked him out,” she objected, feeling a surprising sting of betrayal which she squashed roughly. “You told him not to come back until he was clean!” 

“Which he certainly isn’t,” Iris acknowledged dryly. Unmentioned went the hypocrisy she  _ was _ capable of: forcing Leon to sober up when she herself was undeniably an addict. “But Leon made an appointment for a reading, and you know we’re not in a position where we can refuse clients--no matter who they are.” True. Iris had always been very honest with Olive about the state of their finances, since she often took care of household duties like shopping, cooking, and cleaning. Begrudgingly, Olive nodded for her mother to continue with her explanation.

“When Leon came for his reading, it was clear from the beginning that it was mostly a front for him to talk to me without getting booted out,” Iris said, rolling her eyes. “But a customer is a customer, so I did a tarot reading for him and let him ramble.” She sighed sadly, rubbing her face and suddenly looking very tired. “He seemed a little better,” Iris admitted. “He didn’t reek like stale beer, his eyes were mostly focused, and he looked. . . happy. Energetic, even.” She shrugged helplessly. “He said he’d met someone new, that she was helping him tone down the drinking, steering him away from the hard stuff. I was happy for him, but there was something about him that made me feel. . . uneasy.” Yeah, Olive knew the feeling. “And that feeling only got worse once I did his reading.”

Olive shifted nervously. “Was it bad?”

Iris shook her head, looking troubled. “The opposite. There was nothing explicitly awful about it. In fact, it painted a pretty nice picture for his relationship and for his future. . . but something about it rubbed me the wrong way. Gave me this awful feeling, like something was about to go badly wrong. And now, looking at  _ this  _ spread,” she gestured unhappily to the cards on the table, “I think I know why.”

Olive’s gut twisted sharply, eyes flicking between the tarot cards and her mother’s worried frown. “What do you mean?” she asked hurriedly. 

“I did the same kind of reading for Leon that you did for yourself,” Iris elaborated, shooting Olive a glance. “Past, present, best to come, worst to come, and the results if you continue down this path,” she explained, reaching out to tap each card as she spoke its meaning. “And I pulled the  _ exact same _ cards.”

A jolt ran through Olive’s system. “What, like in the same order?” she asked, surprised and a little uneasy, though she wasn’t sure why. Something told her that wasn’t a good sign. 

“No,” Iris assured, though it didn’t make Olive feel much better. “But I’ve never seen this happen before. Intuition tells me it indicates that your paths are entwined somehow. That the events to come--the ones that drew out these cards for both of you--will shape both of your lives irrevocably, if in different ways. For example,” she said, when Olive’s expression remained blank with incomprehension, “Leon’s ‘present’ was represented by the Queen of Wands, meaning passion and determination. That probably refers to his relationship with this mystery woman he mentioned to us both, or just to the woman herself.” She sighed. “That’s also the card that gave me the absolute  _ worst _ gut feeling I’ve ever had. Even though objectively Leon’s present seems bright,  _ subjectively _ it’s occupied by a woman who gives us both the heebie-jeebies.” That was putting it mildly, in Olive’s opinion. “And worse,  _ your _ ‘present’ is occupied by the Three of Swords.”

Olive shivered at the thought of the card. “I don’t. . . feel heartbroken though. I’m not suffering.”

Iris eyed her. “And I certainly hope it stays that way,” she said quietly. “But given the reaction we both had to Leon’s lady friend-- _ his _ ‘Queen of Wands’--it seems likely to me that the suffering and grief the cards are predicting for you will be caused by her, if they do come to pass,” Iris interpreted gently. Pessimistically, Olive suspected that last bit had only been added for her benefit. Something told her that Iris was  _ expecting _ that heartbreak to come to pass. Maybe that was why she was so worried. “His ‘present’ affects yours, if you will. On the other hand,” Iris continued a bit more brightly, “the Queen of Wands in  _ your _ reading exists in the future, representing the best to come for you. She’s the woman you’ll come to be one day--strong, passionate, determined, and brave,” Olive’s mother told her, voice proud and affectionate. Olive squirmed, smiling a little brittlely.  _ What else would that woman be? _ she wondered, glancing over her tarot spread.  _ Would she be happy? It. . . didn’t really look like it. _ “And though you’re both represented by the same card, the feeling we get from these readings tells us that you and this woman will come in direct opposition with one another at some point in your lives.”

“But there’s nothing in the reading that  _ says _ that, right?” Olive questioned hopefully, even as her instinct told her that Iris’s prediction was accurate.

Iris looked at her a little pityingly. “Tarot isn’t science, sweetheart. What you feel from the cards is vastly more important than what the traditional meanings tell you. Are you telling me you feel like you and this woman will never have anything to do with one another?”

“No,” Olive grumbled reluctantly. “Is there anything else?” she asked, eager to change the subject. Thinking about that woman made her feel nauseous.

Iris nodded, reaching out to tap the card that had so unnerved Olive earlier that afternoon. “The Death card,” she began. “I know it freaked you out a little sweetie, but in your spread it’s really not necessarily a bad thing. Changes and new beginnings can be scary,” Iris acknowledged. “But they don’t have to be bad. In your father’s reading, however. . .” Iris flipped the card so that it was reversed, the skeleton and his horse seeming to cling to the upside-down earth and spite gravity, which should have sent them falling into the open sky. “The card is reversed, representing stagnation or decay.  _ Fear _ of change. And that’s the worst thing coming in Leon’s future, which will eventually lead him to his own ultimate destination.” She indicated the Hermit--which sat reversed, representing loneliness and isolation in the slot reserved for Olive’s own worst thing to come--and flipped it so it was upright before giving it a light tap. “He’ll need to search for inner guidance, and to contemplate his own truth if he wants to escape that fate.”

Olive considered this. It made sense that her father would one day need to find answers for himself, rather than just allowing others to dictate his actions and beliefs for the rest of his life. “Okay,” she allowed. “So the reason you’ve been acting so weird lately is you’ve known for a while that some sort of big change is coming, and you starting acting even weirder today because you saw that me and Dad have matching suspicious tarot readings, which both have to do with this creepy mystery woman Dad’s been seeing,” Olive summed up, waiting for Iris’s nod before continuing. “So the question is, who is this woman, and why does she want your knife?” she asked bluntly. 

Iris hesitated, biting her lip, but Olive wasn’t having it. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Mom, you know you can’t lie to me,” Olive said plainly. “Besides, even if I didn’t have a freaky sixth sense, I’d  _ still _ know that you know, because you’ve been carrying that knife around with you since last night, but we only found out Dad’s friend wanted it this afternoon,” she pointed out, crossing her arms.

Iris groaned petulantly. “You know, sometimes I wish you weren’t quite so smart and talented and observant and perfect, kiddo,” she complained.

“Well, I get it from you,” Olive said, demure. God knows she didn’t get it from Leon. “Now spill.”

Iris released a gusty sigh. “Well, to clarify, I really  _ don’t _ know who your father’s girlfriend is.” That rang as the truth in Olive’s ears, so she allowed Iris to continue uninterrupted. “And I don’t think she actually  _ wants _ the knife. More like. . . she wanted to know whether or not it was still in the house, so she sent Leon to find out.”

Olive’s brow wrinkled as something in the back of her mind stirred uneasily. “Why would she care about that?”

Slowly, Iris picked up the dagger in question, weighing it in her hands and running a finger over the ornate handle. “Silver is a unique material, Olive,” she said quietly after a moment’s pause. “It’s. . .  _ pure _ in a way that most other metals aren’t, which is why it has such a renowned place in folklore. That’s also what gives it a number of extraordinary properties and capabilities. It has. . . certain effects on certain people,” she explained, eyeing Olive meaningfully. She stared back blankly. “Effects that make silver a very useful  _ weapon _ against those people.”

Olive had literally no idea what her mother was talking about. A weapon? What? Well, obviously the knife was a weapon, it was a  _ knife _ . But if it was really dangerous because it was made of silver that meant. . . what did that mean? 

A shiver suddenly ran down Olive’s spine--the same shiver that had erupted across her skin every time she thought too hard about the woman her father had mentioned. It was the feeling of eyes boring into the back of her head, breath on her nape. An age-old instinct, multiplied by a thousand, that told a prey animal when it was being stalked by a predator. And abruptly, Olive knew. That’s what this woman was. A predator.

Objectively, Olive knew humans were apex predators themselves. They were near the top of the food chain-- _ at _ the top, if Olive’s teachers were to be believed. But something about that had always rubbed Olive the wrong way. The idea that humans didn’t have predators themselves, that they were never hunted except on very rare occasions, by  _ very  _ large animals. . . that had never sounded like the truth to Olive. Her teachers  _ thought _ it was. They weren’t lying to her, not intentionally. But she had occasionally wondered if maybe they just. . . didn’t have all the facts. She knew, living with a bona fide psychic medium as she did, that there were things about the world that the average person could never know or understand. Maybe. . . maybe there were things Olive never knew either. And the feeling she got from this woman. . . well, it wasn’t like any feeling Olive had gotten from a person before--and she’d met her fair share of run-of-the-mill human predators.

She swallowed, heart thundering in her chest. “And you. . . you think this woman is. . . the kind of person silver could be used against?” Olive fumbled slightly, not sure what exactly she was asking, just that it wasn’t good. 

Iris gave her a measuring look, seeming to debate something internally. Her expression was nothing short of tormented, and seeing her normally cheerful, unflappable mother so out of sorts was almost more frightening to Olive than the thought of some sort of unknown predator lurking outside the knowledge of humanity. Finally, Iris sighed, obviously having come to a decision. One, it seemed, that she didn’t particularly like. “I wish you didn’t ever have to learn about this,” Olive’s mother muttered, eyes trailing over Olive’s face as if she thought she’d never see her daughter again--not like this, anyway. Not unburdened by whatever she was about to learn. Olive swallowed, shifting closer to Iris, unconsciously seeking comfort.

“I mentioned myths, a moment ago,” Iris said haltingly at a more normal volume. “And you already know of a few things which most people would consider myths or spooky stories, but are in fact terribly,  _ terribly _ real,” Iris continued, her voice taking on the sort of echoing quality that Olive associated with her readings. A faint, familiar blueish-white glow began to build behind her mother’s warm brown eyes, giving them a cooler, otherworldly cast. Olive twitched, habitually wary at the sight, and Iris squeezed her hand reassuringly. Still her. Not the Others. “Spirits and ghosts are real,” Iris pointed out. “As are mediums and psychics of varying ability,” she added, gesturing between the two of them wryly. “And I’ve seen the gears turning behind your eyes, sweetheart, ever since you realized that something strange was going on. I know---” she stuttered, breath hitching slightly on the edge of hesitation. “I know you must have realized that--that other things might be real too,” she finished at a whisper.

Iris didn’t want to be telling her this, Olive knew. And maybe she didn’t want to hear it, either. But this was important, wasn’t it? This was. . . this was big. And immediate. Knowing this, Olive suddenly realized as a wave of intuition washed over her. . . Knowing this would change her life irrevocably.

She had to know. Even if she didn’t want to. “It’s okay, Mom,” Olive said, a strange sort of calm coming over her. She was still afraid. Terrified really. But the panic that had been steadily building in the back of her mind had receded. For now, anyway. “Tell me,” she requested firmly. 

Iris blinked, visibly surprised by the change in Olive’s demeanor. Surprised enough that she seemed to forget to be shaken by the circumstances, if only for a moment. After a split-second of confusion, Iris’s face softened into a small, genuine smile. “My smart girl,” she murmured, voice warm, as she reached out to cup Olive’s cheek lovingly. “My brave girl. Look at you.” She sighed quietly. “There’s not really a delicate way to say this,” Iris warned, before continuing at Olive’s encouraging nod. “I think. . .” She bit her lip and paused, troubled and reluctant. Finally, she came out with the truth. “I think your father might have fallen in love with a vampire.”

. . .

Bizarrely, Olive’s first reaction was to laugh. Or rather, to stifle a laugh such that the only noise that escaped her mouth was a strangled, somewhat hysterical squeak. Even through the stunned, vague haze of stupefaction that had fallen over her, Olive sensed that a chuckle would not be an appropriate response at the moment, no matter how strong the urge was. 

It wasn’t funny. It  _ really _ wasn’t funny, especially because Olive  _ knew _ it was true. While her conscious mind heard “vampire” and thought,  _ Haha funny joke Mom _ , her intuition heard it and perked up, thinking,  _ Ah yes, of course. That’s right. _ The information slotted perfectly into place in Olive’s mind as if it had always been there, throwing the fear and riled instincts that had been building in her chest for hours into sharp relief. Of course. That was why she had been afraid. Vampires.

Jesus Christ.

She didn’t want to believe it. She wanted this to be some stupid, tasteless, elaborate prank. But if the past 24 hours had taught Olive anything, it was that lying to herself didn’t work any better than when other people tried to do it.

“Vampires are real,” Olive choked out dully, and the words tasted like the truth.

Iris simply nodded, watching Olive closely. Distantly, she realized her mother was probably worried Olive was going to pass out or something.

Huh. Tempting. 

“I had my suspicions that Leon had met one after he first came to see me,” Iris elaborated, reaching over to pull Olive closer with a steadying hand, just in case. “But it was your description of his behavior earlier that really cinched it,” she confessed.

Olive’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Vampires are immensely powerful creatures,” Iris explained frankly. “Physically, even the weakest vampire is strong and fast enough to subdue the strongest human. But their most dangerous abilities lie within the realm of the mind.” Olive straightened, a hard pit forming in her stomach as her gut twisted harshly. Iris caught her reaction, and smiled grimly. “Vampires have a couple different means of. . .  _ persuasion _ available to them, each more violating than the last.” She turned to face Olive, expression pinched, and Olive was struck suddenly by the realization that this was the most serious she had ever seen her typically goofy and outwardly carefree mother. She knew Iris had a more solemn side to her, had glimpsed it from time to time when the Others had been causing problems or when money was tight, but Olive’s mother had always made a concerted effort to be cheerful in her presence. Selfishly, Olive couldn’t help but be grateful for that. 

More selfish still, she couldn’t help but wish Iris would put on that front  _ now _ as well.

“The most common and most straightforward of their methods is called a glamour,” Iris went on, apparently oblivious to her daughter’s musings. “It’s. . . well, it’s mind control, basically,” she admitted bluntly. “Most vampires can only glamour one person at a time, since it tends to require eye contact, and the commands issued have to be very carefully worded to be effective. It works best when used to control people’s actions, rather than their thoughts or feelings. But I don’t think that’s what’s happened to your father.”

Oddly, the thought of  _ literal mind control _ didn’t evoke the sort of anxiety response from her instincts that Olive had come to expect over the course of this conversation. For some reason, Olive just didn’t think she needed to worry about this so-called glamour. Hmm. . . food for thought. “What’s wrong with him, then?”

Iris shook her head irritably. “Seems to me like the idiot’s gone and gotten himself addicted to vampire blood.”

Olive blinked. “Huh,” she said. It  _ had _ seemed like Leon was in the midst of some strange kind of high when he had torn up the apartment. “If that’s a thing, then. . . yeah. That. . . that makes sense.” She paused momentarily. “That’s a thing?”

Iris chuckled lightly, eyes softening. “Yes, it’s a thing. Vampire blood is a highly addictive substance, and it produces a very. . .  _ pleasurable  _ effect when taken in small doses,” she explained carefully. “It’s kind of like the world's most effective upper,” Iris clarified. “It can increase your energy levels, heighten your senses, or even your physical abilities like strength or stamina.” Vividly, Olive recalled how Leon had practically  _ jittered _ with excess energy, bouncing around the apartment and tearing the mattress off of the couch like it weighed nothing at all. That. . . checked out, yeah. “It can also make you  _ really hor _ \--” Iris cut herself off and glanced at Olive nervously. “Uh, make you feel really good,” Iris corrected clumsily.

Olive rolled her eyes. Gross. “Real subtle course correction there, Mom,” she drawled. “I wonder what you were about to say?”

Laughing helplessly, Iris gave Olive a playful shove, which she returned without hesitation, leading to an exchange of mock blows that went on for a handful of moments, mother and daughter giggling like school children as they dug their fingers into each other’s sides. For a minute, Olive was almost able to forget that anything was wrong at all.

But of course, something  _ was  _ wrong, and all it took was a glance at the door and a sharp pang in her gut to bring Olive hurtling back to reality. Right. Immediate threat at hand.

_ (Immediate? Why did she think it was immediate? Why did looking at the door have her instincts up in arms?) _

Olive sighed soundlessly. “I guess it figures that even when Dad gets involved in something as crazy as freaking  _ vampires _ , it still all comes back to the drugs,” she muttered bitterly, and Iris’s face twisted guiltily. Olive twitched. She hadn’t meant to imply anything by that, not about Iris’s own drug use, or about how Olive’s mother was the one to get Leon into drugs in the first place. . . but apparently Iris was blaming herself anyway. “I didn’t. . . this isn’t your fault, Mom,” Olive insisted. “If this isn’t on me for not telling you about what happened earlier, then it isn’t on  _ you _ for something that happened a  _ decade _ ago.”

“I know, I know,” Iris said, somewhat unconvincingly. “You don’t have to reassure me, kiddo, that’s not your job.” Privately, Olive disagreed. She’d spent a lot of time comforting her mother over the years. Why should she stop now? But she sensed her objections wouldn’t be appreciated at the moment, and wisely kept her mouth shut. “But the point still stands. Leon was already an addict. It would have been easy to get him hooked on vampire blood. It’s everything he looks for in a drug. And from there, the blood’s special properties could take root.”

Olive’s stomach sank. “Special  _ persuasive _ properties?”

Iris nodded solemnly. “I don’t know all the details, cause I’ve never been dumb enough to try it for myself and vampires like to keep trade secrets close to their chests,” she explained, “but I do know that drinking vampire blood creates a connection between you and the blood donor. They can get into your head more easily, you’ll be. . .  _ attracted _ to them even if you wouldn’t normally be, and they gain some measure of influence over you thoughts, your dreams, your  _ feelings _ . And while that might not be enough to really control someone with a strong will or sense of self. . .” Iris sighed, rubbing a hand harshly over her face. “Well, we both know that your father is suggestible at the best of times. And he’s always had a particular weakness for assertive women. A steady supply of blood would make him putty in this vampire’s hands,  _ especially _ if he has feelings for her--real or otherwise.”

Well that sounded pretty horrifying. But still. . . Olive’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why bother, though?” she asked. “I mean, if she could just glamour him, why go to the trouble of using vampire blood instead?”

Iris shrugged. “Who knows. Power trip, maybe? The illusion of real love or loyalty? If he was glamoured, Leon wouldn’t be much more than a mindless puppet with a brain like swiss cheese--more so than usual, I mean. But drugged up on vampire blood, he’s still himself, more or less.”

Olive frowned. Her gut was still tugging at her insistently. There was something more to this, something important. But that was all she knew. For all that her instincts were apparently hyper accurate and supernatural in origin, Olive still couldn’t just pull information out of thin air. “I really feel like we’re missing something,” she confessed, troubled.

“Oh, I’m sure we are,” Iris confirmed darkly. “There’s no way we have all the information we would need to fully understand what’s going on. But that’s an unfortunate reality of life, sweetheart.” Olive’s mother turned to face her, reaching out to run a hand through her daughter’s mass of curly hair, gently detangling knots as she went. “Your instincts can only take you so far. You need to be able to interpret them, as well as what your other senses tell you,” Iris instructed. “So?” she prompted, when Olive said nothing in response. “What  _ do _ we know?”

Olive frowned. There was that feeling again, the same one she’d gotten when Iris had first given her the tarot deck and spoken of Olive’s birthday as if she wouldn’t be there to see it. Why did it sound like Iris was trying to teach her something before it was too late? “We know that Dad has gotten close with a vampire,” Olive said slowly, mulling it over, “and that she’s probably keeping him close by manipulating him and supplying him with vampire blood, which makes him agitated, but even more malleable than usual.” She paused, and swallowed harshly. “We know from the tarot cards that Dad and me and the vampire are all linked somehow. That we’ll all affect each other’s fates. And we know there’s supposed to be suffering in my present.” Olive glanced at Iris subtly. There had been no mention of her in the cards, or how she might play into this interaction between Olive, her father, and his vampire friend. She closed her eyes, exhaling shakily. Just for a moment, Olive would pretend that she didn’t understand the implications of that. “And we know that this afternoon Dad came to the apartment to check and see whether you still had your silver dagger.”

“And what does that tell you?” Iris asked gently, still carding her hand comfortingly though Olive’s hair. The girl tipped her head forward into the motion, trying to imagine that her mother was soothing her to sleep.

After a moment, Olive forced herself to open her eyes. She looked up at Iris, green meeting brown. “It tells me that the only reason a vampire would care if we had access to silver, was if she was planning on coming here.”

* * *

It was far too late to run. Olive knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Her mother knew it too. Perhaps if they’d left earlier. . . but that didn’t bear thinking about. If they didn’t come tonight, Iris decided, then maybe they could reconsider in the morning. For now, however, they were safer in the apartment. 

“Vampires really can’t enter a dwelling without an invitation,” Iris explained, clutching Olive to her chest with one hand even as the other remained tightly wrapped around the silver dagger. Her eyes stayed locked on the front door. That was really the only feasible entrance to the apartment. None of the windows opened wide enough for an adult to squeeze through, not even the one by the fire escape. 

Olive stared ahead dully, tear tracks drying on her cheeks. 

“Sweetheart. . .” Iris trailed off helplessly, pained.

“They’re gonna come tonight,” Olive whispered hoarsely. Her gut churned in a mixture of nausea and riled instincts, but her words rang true. She was sure.

Resolutely, she continued not to think about why Iris seemed so sure she wouldn’t be around in four months. About why Iris apparently wouldn’t be as influential in Olive’s future as her father and some random vampire. About the card at the end of Olive’s tarot reading.  _ What will come if you continue on this path. . . _

Iris squeezed Olive tightly, pressing a kiss to her crown. “I should tell you it’ll be alright,” she murmured into Olive’s hair. 

Olive shook her head. “I don’t want you to lie to me.” And she didn’t want confirmation that those words would be a lie. 

“Then I won’t,” Iris reassured, face still tucked into Olive’s mane. Quietly, she began to sing.  _ “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”  _ Iris’s voice wasn’t anything noteworthy, but it soothed Olive the way only her mother’s singing could. Still, she didn’t relax, and neither did Iris.

And moments later, their strained peace was disrupted.

Olive stiffened up like a board before she was even consciously aware of her instincts screaming at her. Her stomach leapt into her throat even as goosebumps erupted over her flesh, her hair standing on end. Her focus narrowed, heart beginning to pound as her breathing stuttered and adrenaline coursed through her veins. “They’re here,” Olive breathed. 

Iris moved almost quicker than Olive could see. In the span of a few seconds she had gotten out from behind Olive and crossed to the kitchen with sure steps. Olive followed a few steps behind, hovering anxiously at her mother’s side. They both kept the door in view at all times. 

Iris opened one of the lower cabinets and stuck her arm in as far as she could, shifting it around oddly. Olive heard a strange sound like the loss of suction combined with the creaking of bent wood--barely audible over the rushing of blood in her ears--and a moment later Iris pulled out a wide, flat panel that Olive vaguely recognized as the back wall of the cabinet. She barely had time to process that before Iris extracted a long, wickedly sharp wooden stake from what must have been a hidden compartment built into the wall behind the cabinet. “Here,” Iris said, shoving the stake into Olive’s hands. It was wide enough that her fingers had some difficulty grasping it. 

Olive had less than a minute to file away the fact that she had just been handed a weapon and that apparently her mother had a  _ second _ secret secret spot that she’d managed to keep hidden, before all thoughts other than panic fled her mind for one simple reason.

A knock at the door.

Olive froze, instincts screaming so loudly she couldn’t even begin to process them, but Iris stayed in motion. Without hesitation, Olive’s mother grabbed her by the arm, pulled her out of the kitchen and towards the back wall of the apartment, and put herself firmly between Olive and the door, palming the silver dagger threateningly. 

Another knock. “Excuse me?” A female voice, thick with a rolling, rich southern accent that Olive recognized but couldn’t quite place. “Is anybody home?” she asked, somehow mocking in her sincerity. This was the vampire. Olive knew it. The same paralyzing fear that had haunted her all day, the creeping feeling of being stalked and hunted was back, and stronger than ever. Olive’s legs shook. 

Iris reached back and squeezed her hand. “It’s a bit late to go knocking on a stranger’s door, don’t you think?” she called back dispassionately, barely raising her voice. “How can I help you?”

“Oh, well, I  _ am  _ sorry about the hour. I’m a bit of a night owl, you see,” the monster tittered girlishly. Faintly, Olive could make out the sound of her nails tapping rhythmically on the other side of the door. “My name’s Amélie Laroux,” she introduced herself. The tapping grew slightly louder. “Your good friend Leon and I are  _ very  _ close. He’s told me all about you, Iris. Can I call you Iris?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, I was in the neighborhood, and I saw your light was on, so I thought I’d just stop by to introduce myself to his family!”

That was a lie, obviously. Olive didn’t need her. . .  _ gift _ to know that. Something about her name hadn’t been quite right either, though. Not a  _ lie _ exactly, just. . . not really the truth? Olive shook the thought away. That was so far from being important right now. 

“Would you mind letting me in?” Amélie asked smoothly, voice as cool and slick as a snake-oil salesman. “That’d be alright, wouldn’t it? It’d be alright, tell her,  _ cher _ .”

“I’m here too, Iris,” Leon’s voice spoke up dutifully at Amélie’s prompting, and Olive’s heart sank, a traitorous sting beginning at the backs of her eyes. She’d known he was in on it, she’d  _ known.  _ So why did it hurt so much to have it confirmed? “You can let her in, it’s fine.” He sounded. . . nervous wasn’t quite the right word. Afraid might be closer to the truth. But somehow. . . sad? Resigned? Resigned _ and _ sad? Olive couldn’t quite pin the emotion down.

“No. I don’t think so,” Iris said firmly, not reacting to Leon’s presence beyond a single jarring twitch. She clutched the dagger and Olive’s arm alike in a vice like grip. “Maybe if you come back in the morning.”

There was a long, thick pause, slightly too long to be natural. Abruptly, something in the back of Olive’s mind shifted and clicked into place, and she realized that Iris had given something away with that statement. 

A moment later, Amélie confirmed this. “Ah,” she murmured, somehow loud enough to be heard through the door, yet maintaining the threatening quality that only calm, quiet speech could produce. “So you  _ do _ know. I was wondering if you might.” Neither Iris nor Olive replied, which the vampire seemed to take as encouragement to continue ( _ no _ , Olive knew,  _ she would have continued either way, it doesn’t matter what we do-- _ ). “I’m from New Orleans, you see, so I know a genuine psychic when I come across one. And  _ you _ my dear, are certainly the genuine article.” She sighed mournfully. “Ahh, it’s almost a shame. We vampires do so love to collect pretty, talented things like you. If only you weren’t in the way.” Olive’s brow furrowed. In the way of what? “Oh well. Needs must!” Amélie tacked on cheerfully, and Olive had a split-second’s warning from her hindbrain before--

_ BANG! _

Olive couldn’t help it. As Amélie’s fist slammed against the front door with all the noise and force of a battering ram, Olive released a single, terrified shriek, curling in on herself as tears finally well and truly flooded her eyes. “Oh God, oh God,” she whimpered, gut roiling. She wanted to run, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. She could hide? No that wouldn’t help either, the vampire would be able to hear her,  _ smell _ her no matter where she went. And if they fought--! “No,” Olive moaned, shaking her head as if it could dislodge the intuitive knowledge from her brain. “No, no, no!”

“Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in!” Amélie chanted gleefully, abandoning her southern belle ruse and shaking the door in its frame aggressively. The hinges and doorknob rattled loudly. 

“Get back, Olive! I’ll look after you,” Iris assured, turning her body slightly so she could look at Olive and still keep herself between her daughter and the quaking door. Even in the midst of Olive’s panic, Iris refrained from uttering the phrase  _ it’s alright. _ They both knew it would be a lie.

“This is my fault!” Olive cried hysterically, tears spilling uselessly over her cheeks. “If I’d-- if I’d told you earlier that she wanted the knife you would’ve--would’ve known she was coming and we could have left! We could have been halfway across the state by now!”

“And then what?” Iris whispered harshly, but not unkindly. “Sweetheart, we don’t have the resources to--” There was another loud bang at the door, and Iris cut herself off. When she spoke again, her voice was low and plaintive. “Running wouldn’t have done any good, baby, I  _ need _ you to know that.  _ None _ of this is your fault, okay?  _ Okay? _ ” Iris pressed insistently when Olive stayed stubbornly silent.

“Okay,” Olive choked out. 

“Good,” Iris said firmly, glancing over her shoulder when the door rattled ominously in its frame once more.  _ She’s toying with us _ , Olive knew instinctively. She didn’t doubt that the vampire was strong enough to kick in the door easily. Shaking the door, drawing things out, lingering outside the apartment. . . these were all scare tactics.

A predator playing with her food.

“I need you to go to your room and lock the door behind you,” Olive’s mother ordered, bending down and cupping her daughter’s cheeks between gentle, weathered palms. “Block it with whatever you can.”

Olive’s heart leapt in her chest, skipping a beat or two. “No,” she argued, reaching up to wrap her too-small hands around Iris’s thin wrists. “No, no, no.” Olive repeated it frantically like a mantra, a childish denial not only of her mother’s words, but of what she  _ knew _ \--suddenly  _ knew,  _ beyond a shadow of a doubt--would happen if she obeyed. “No, I can’t!”

“You can and you will,” Iris spoke in a tone that brooked no argument, straightening from her crouch and manhandling Olive towards her bedroom, careful to always keep her own body between Olive and the door. “This isn’t even a discussion.”

“No!” Olive half-shouted, struggling with all her might, nearly feral at the thought of what she knew was coming. “I have to stay--have to stay with you!”

“And why is that?” Iris fairly snarled, voice hard as she heaved Olive through her bedroom door. Why, why,  _ why _ did she have to pick  _ now _ to become an authoritarian mother?!

Olive dropped the stake and wrapped her fingers around her doorframe, hanging on with all her strength. Her knuckles whitened with the strain, her wrists popped, her palms reddened, and still she refused to let go. “Because if you put me in here and close the door,  _ I’ll never see you again! _ ”

For a moment, the very world around them seemed to still. Iris froze. The noise at the door stopped. The only sound in the apartment was the wheeze of Olive’s heavy, panicked breathing.

Slowly, Iris knelt down to Olive’s level. She reached up to gently cup Olive’s jaw, face easing into something pained, unsurprised, and achingly tender. “I haven’t been a very good mother to you,” she said quietly, expressing the sentiment for the second time that night. Unlike the first time, however, Olive couldn’t find it in herself to protest, no matter how untrue she thought it was. “I’ve left you to worry over and take care of the both of us. I’ve let you see me in the kinds of conditions that no child should ever witness in anyone, let alone a parent. I’ve let my fear and my addiction control me. I’ve forced you to practically raise yourself, when my first and only priority should have been watching over you. Making sure you don’t turn out like me,” Iris finished self-deprecatingly, smiling wryly.

Fresh tears welled up in Olive’s eyes, overflowing and spilling silently down her cheeks almost immediately.

Iris ran her thumb across Olive’s cheek, sweeping the tears away lovingly. She traced her daughter's features lightly. “I never understood,” Iris whispered, voice thick and eyes alight with something like awe, “how someone like me could have made someone so perfect. So beautiful and brave and kind.” She swallowed heavily. “My little Olive branch.” Olive sobbed. “Knowing you. . .  _ loving you _ , has been the greatest joy and privilege of my life,” Iris professed, determined, rising to her feet even as she continued to stroke Olive’s face.

Olive shook her head slowly, tucking her chin to her chest and letting loose a wracking cry. “Please don’t go,” she choked. “ _ Please _ , Mommy,  _ please  _ don’t go.” But even as she begged, she knew it was no use. Her gut clenched harshly.  _ The Three of Swords. _ Suffering. Heartbreak.  _ Death. _ The end of something. 

Iris bent down and pressed her lips to Olive’s forehead. Her mane of curly red hair fell around Olive’s face, tickling her cheeks and collarbones. She smelled of floral incense and peppermint tea. “I love you, sweet girl. More than anything. Remember that not everything is set in stone, no matter how hopeless things may seem. We have our gifts so that we can guide ourselves to the brightest paths.”

“Don’t go,” Olive pleaded one final time, hopeless, nearly faint.

Iris pulled back and smiled. She did not look afraid. “No can do, kiddo,” she said, voice as clear as the open sky, as free and beautiful as birdsong. “I’m your mother, after all.”

“I hate to interrupt this  _ touching  _ moment,” the vampire interjected, sneer audible in her voice. “But let’s get back to business, shall we?”

Foreboding swelled in Olive’s stomach so sharply that she gasped aloud. “Get down!” she shouted, yanking Iris to the floor with her and curling up into a ball, shielding her head. And just in time, too, for no sooner had Olive cried out than the door to the apartment gave in with a massive crack, slamming open against the wall even as pieces of broken metal and wooden shrapnel from the now-broken lock and frame shot across the room like bullets. A splinter the size of Olive’s hand flew over her head and through the doorway, only to embed itself in the back wall of her bedroom with a loud thud.

Olive stared, heart jackrabbiting in her chest. Amélie stood framed in the open doorway, but--true to what Iris had said--she made no move to enter the apartment.

She was. . . surprisingly small. Slight and short, the vampire stood with graceful poise despite just having kicked the door in. The only obviously inhuman things about her were the predatory look in her eyes and the unnaturally pale hue of her skin--almost like paper. With a jolt, Olive realized that, in fact, Amélie looked rather a lot like Iris. She had a smooth, youthful face framed by locks of perfectly curled strawberry blonde hair. Medium brown eyes glittered maliciously, done up with a flawless smokey eye. All in all, Amélie Laroux looked like a younger, meaner, flawless version of Olive’s mother. It was unspeakably unsettling. 

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,  _ chérie _ ,” she smiled beatifically. 

Iris said nothing, pushing Olive backwards into her bedroom and brandishing the silver dagger threateningly. 

Amélie narrowed her eyes, obviously irritated. “So you did still have that after all,” she grumbled petulantly. “You really can’t do anything right, can you Leon?” the vampire berated. 

“Sorry, babe,” Leon said mournfully, stepping into view with a hangdog expression on his face. He was just as jittery as he’d been that afternoon, with a high flush to his cheeks. But there  _ was _ something scared about his expression. Not scared of Amélie, Olive didn’t think--though every instinct Olive had told her that he really,  _ really _ should have been--but something about the situation had him spooked. 

Well that didn’t bode well. 

Leon glanced into the apartment, and when his eyes landed on Olive, hovering fearfully at Iris’s back, something in his expression faltered. For a split second, they stared at each other in dismay, identical green eyes meeting. Leon was the one to break the stare off, turning to Amélie and saying sheepishly, “I couldn’t find it anywhere when I was here earlier. She musta’ had it with her.”

Olive’s intuition leapt on the omission, and she fought to keep her expression unchanged. He wasn’t going to mention the fact that she had lied to him? Had told him they didn’t have the dagger anymore? What was he playing at?

“Aw, that’s alright baby,” Amélie cooed, turning to cup Leon’s face lovingly. The gesture was shockingly empty of emotion, but Leon didn’t seem to notice, melting happily into her caress. “We all make mistakes sometimes. And now you get the chance to make up for it, anyway,” she said, dropping a lingering kiss onto his jawline before stepping back to leave him the only one standing in the doorway. “Go on.”

Leon hesitated very briefly, then stepped forward into the apartment, eyes locked on Iris with a determined set to his mouth. 

Ah. Olive’s breathing stuttered, but her thoughts were now so panicked that they’d circled right back around to calm again. Oh no. 

“Into your room, sweetheart,” Iris said firmly. 

“Mom--”

“Go.”

And Olive couldn’t argue. She knew--she  _ knew _ . . . but if she stayed out here, she would only be in the way. She was too--too small and  _ weak _ to be of any use. What could she even do? So she picked up the stake, and retreated into her bedroom. And before the door closed all the way, she looked up at her mother one last time, holding tears at bay so that the image of Iris standing tall and proud and beautiful and  _ alive  _ would be perfectly clear. “I love you,” Olive whispered, and shut the door, locking it closed. 

And if she cried a little in the dark of her bedroom, there was no one there to see it but the constellations on the ceiling. 

Even as tears leaked helplessly out of her eyes, Olive kept her ear pressed to the door. She didn’t want to hear this, but she couldn’t just pretend it wasn’t happening. 

She heard Iris shift around. “What the _ hell _ are you doing, Leon?” the woman asked, voice low and tight with a mixture of anger and disappointment that Olive was familiar with. It was the same voice Iris usually used when speaking to Leon. “You’re really gonna attack me just because some vampire asked you? Gonna try to  _ kill  _ me?” In a normal argument, this was around the moment when Iris would usually bring up how Leon’s choices were going to affect Olive, but this was far from a normal argument, and Olive was sure her mother didn’t want to bring any unnecessary attention back to Olive’s presence. 

Unfortunately, Iris’s words seemed to galvanize Leon somehow, and when he spoke his voice was clearer and steadier than it had been thus far. “She’s not just some vampire, Rissy,” he snapped. “We love each other! She  _ supports  _ me!”

Given what she had observed and what Iris had told her about the affects of vampire blood, Olive very much doubted that. However, instinct told her that pointing that out would only infuriate Leon and Amélie alike. Silently, Olive willed Iris not to make that particular argument.

Iris must have had the same thought, because rather than contradict Leon, what she chose to say instead was, “Good for you, then. Why don’t you go enjoy your relationship somewhere else and leave us alone? I don’t have any problem with you two being together, so long as you do it away from here.”

Though she couldn’t see what was going on, Olive could practically sense it when Leon faltered. Why. . . ?  _ Oh, _ she realized with some prompting from her intuition. That was what he  _ had _ wanted to do. Even with God only knew how much vampire blood coursing through his veins, he still didn’t  _ really _ want to be doing this. 

But he was going to do it anyway. And that, Olive decided, was what was actually important. 

“Oh, but I’m afraid that’s not good enough for me,” Amélie chimed in happily. “You might have noticed we look something alike, darling.” Olive could only assume she was talking to Iris. “And I’m a bit of a jealous person by nature, you see. Silly, I know. What do I have to be jealous of?” she giggled, and Olive felt a stab of irritation break through the haze of calm-born-from-fear that occupied her mind. Her mother was a thousand times better than this crazy freak! “Still, I needed to be sure that Leon here was  _ really _ over you before we could move on to the next stage of our relationship. Eternity is quite the commitment, after all!”

A moment of shocked silence. “You’re going to Turn him?” Iris whispered, quietly enough that Olive could only barely hear it, even with her ear pressed to the keyhole. 

Amélie hummed lightly, and the sound practically dripped with malice. “Only if he kills you,” she sneered, and Olive shivered at the sound of it. But then the vampire’s voice changed back to cloying sweetness as she addressed Leon once more, and Olive wasn’t sure which was worse. “C’mon,  _ cher _ ,” Amélie coaxed. “Don’t you wanna be with me  _ forever _ ?”

Olive had either underestimated the effect of vampire blood or her father’s stupidity, because he somehow didn’t notice the glaring  _ falseness _ of her demeanor. Was it  _ really _ obvious, or did it just seem that way to Olive because of her instincts? She couldn't tell. Either way, Amélie’s words seemed to ease most of Leon’s doubts. “More than anything,” he said, resolute, and Olive heard it clearly when his heavy boots began to finally make their way across the apartment towards Iris. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut as if that would somehow make the situation less real. 

But Iris stood strong. “Don’t forget,” she snarled, “that I’m not just some human.” Her voice took on a familiar otherworldly quality, deepening and seeming to echo, as if several people with different voices were all speaking at once. “I am a Ward of the Other Realm!” The door Olive was pressed up against began to shake, and so did the floors and the walls. She could hear things falling off the shelves and shattering in the other room, then the faint whistle of displaced air as things began to fly about. Leon cried out suddenly, and Olive assumed that something had hit him. Iris continued, voice reverberating at a frequency that made Olive want to put her head in her hands.  **“I have access to knowledge and powers that you cannot even begin to comprehend!”** There was a sudden thud and a massive crash, and Leon shouted out in pain once more, louder than before. A strange, almost electric humming noise filled the air. Sparks shot out of the wall sockets in Olive’s room, and she yelped. Bulbs popped in the other room, and the vampire swore violently from the hallway. 

But the feeling of foreboding in Olive’s stomach didn’t abate. Despite the show of power, Iris still wasn’t going to--!

No longer able to bear no knowing just what was happening, Olive turned her head and put her eye up to the keyhole. Squinting, she could just barely make out a narrow portion of the apartment. There were papers and pieces of shattered glass and ceramics scattered around the floor. Olive could just barely make out Leon’s legs, off to the living room side of the apartment. It looked like he’d been flung up against one of the bookshelves. That must have been the loud crash.

Iris had moved forward a bit, away from the bedroom door. Olive couldn’t see her face, but she knew from prior experience that whenever her mother channelled the Others, her eyes took on an unearthly blue sheen, and her face blurred so that you could no longer make out any of her features concretely. Her limbs spasmed every now and then as different spirits tried to move her body in different directions, but--for now, anyway--Iris remained in control.  **“We are more than you could ever imagine!”** Iris boomed, and the stray, slightly hysterical thought came across Olive’s mind that she was glad none of the other shops nearby had occupied apartments above them, because this was  _ not _ something Olive wanted the police to walk in on. They wouldn’t be able to help, anyway, since the first thing they’d encounter upon coming up the stairs would be a pissed off vampire.  **“And you think to challenge us?!”**

Leon shifted slightly, and knowledge of what was about to happen struck Olive as suddenly as a lightning bolt. “Mom, look out!” she shouted desperately, hopelessly, reaching for the doorknob as if to help, only to be frozen in place by her own instincts which told her to  _ STOP _ even as her father reached into his pocket and flung a handful of salt into Iris’s face.

She gagged helplessly, stumbling back as the pure element forcefully disrupted her connection to the Others. The walls and air stopped thrumming with power as Iris frantically tried to shake the salt crystals off of her body, out of layered clothes and her curly hair. But it was no use, because as soon as the opportunity presented itself, Leon hurled himself forward with vampire blood-enhanced strength, and the struggle became physical.

Iris was a powerful woman. She was strong. She was brave, and fierce, and clever. But compared to a man twice her size and half her age who was hopped up on the best steroid known to man. . . well. 

She got a few good swipes in with the silver dagger before Leon wrestled it out of her hands. She got a few good hits in with her fists before he pinned her arms together with one hand. A few good kicks before he knocked her to the ground and raised the knife up above his head, a single-minded look in his eyes.

Olive watched it all through the keyhole, unable to look away, no matter how she tried. Her eyes were dry, no matter how she tried to summon tears to blur her vision. And the terrible, awful,  _ knowing _ hum in the back of her mind, the one that told what was about to happen--that wouldn’t go away either. She had no control. Not over her body, or over her mind. Over anything at all.

The moment before it happened, Iris looked up. She seemed to meet Olive’s gaze, even through the keyhole. She was pressed face down on the floor, Leon’s meaty fist holding her arms together high up on her back as he pinned her hips and legs to the ground with his knees. Blood was smeared across her mouth and her forehead. Salt clung to her pale eyelashes. A red mark was blooming across her jaw. 

Her eyes were dry too, like Olive’s, and filled with a number of emotions that her daughter didn’t know enough to name. But Olive could recognize fear, especially when it was for herself.  _ Close your eyes _ , Iris mouthed, trying to smile. Her chin trembled. 

At the same time, Leon spoke. “Sorry, Rissy,” he said quietly, sounding genuinely apologetic. As if there had never been any other option.

_ Remember that not everything is set in stone, no matter how hopeless things may seem. We have our gifts so that we can guide ourselves to the brightest paths. _

The Three of Swords. Death.

Olive closed her eyes.

But she still knew the very second it happened. Something clicked, then shattered inside of her. A horrible feeling spread outwards from her heart, an emptiness that made her entire body go numb. Her head thunked against the door as she lost the ability to hold it up. She kept her eyes shut. What would be the point in opening them?

Vaguely, she registered that conversation was ongoing on the other side of the door. “Ah, that’s much better,” Amélie said. Olive knew that she had just stepped through the front door.

“I thought you’d still need an invitation,” Leon said.

“The homeowner’s dead, and the little blood bag is too small to have its name on the lease,” the vampire explained. Something inside Olive twitched. She did not respond. “No one owns the apartment, so anyone can come inside now.”

“Oh.”

“Aww,  _ cher _ , don’t worry. I know that must have been hard, even if you didn’t love her anymore. Thank you for doing that for me, baby. Now I  _ know _ you love me, and we can be together forever. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“. . . Yeah, it does.”

“Now, we just have to deal with the little breather, and we can get right to the most important part of the most important part of your life,  _ cher! _ It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten something so fresh. I bet it’ll taste great!” 

_ That’s bad. _

Okay. 

“Wait!” Leon said loudly. “Um, she doesn’t really need to die, does she? I mean, she’s my--she’s a kid, not an ex. I don’t care about her the way I care about you.”

“Hmm,” Amélie hummed. “The thing is, I  _ really _ don’t want anything to distract you from me, baby. It’s gotta be just us.”

“I mean I don’t care about her at all!” Leon said. “So she won’t be a distraction. But she would--she would be a good witness. You know, to make sure the police don’t look too closely at what happened here.” There was a small pause. “The police always look harder when there’s kids involved. But Iris is--was real into drugs. The cops and CPS’ll know that, so they’ll just assume it was a deal gone wrong or something. Killing Oli--killing the kid would attract extra attention to the case.”

Amélie hummed again. 

“But if you leave the kid alive and glamour her to go along with the drug deal story, they’ll never look at this case again,” Leon continued to explain. “And the Sheriff won’t give you any trouble about making a mess in his Area. I mean, you said the guy’s a real fusspot, right?”

“Ugh, he really is,” Amélie confirmed. “Alright,  _ cher _ , you’ve convinced me!”

The door Olive was leaning against was suddenly yanked away, lock cracking and breaking. Olive fell forward slightly before catching herself. She looked up at the vampire, and flinched at the sight of her. She looked too much like--

Oh, that was right. Olive still had the wooden stake clutched in one hand. Should she use it?

_ No. _

Okay. She dropped the stake.

Amélie raised a perfect red eyebrow and yanked Olive out of her bedroom by the elbow. It hurt. She dragged Olive into the apartment proper, and Olive slipped almost immediately, her bare foot landing in something warm and sticky. She looked down.

Oh. That was a lot of blood. She was standing in it. The blood was coming from--

The blood was coming from--

Some of the tarot cards had fluttered down off the coffee table and landed in the blood. Olive bent down and retrieved them, setting them back on the table. They were still red. Maybe she should wipe them off--

Olive was yanked around away from the living room, toward the kitchen. Amélie pulled her past a stock-still Leon and over to the small pantry. She leaned down and yanked at Olive’s chin so that she had to look the vampire in the eyes. Amélie’s pupils suddenly contracted. “You will forget everything you heard and saw tonight. This is what you’ll remember instead: a tall white man with light hair came to your apartment to ask your mother about some money she owed him. When she couldn’t provide it, he entered by force, ransacked the place, and killed your mother in the struggle. Before he left, he locked you in the pantry so you couldn’t call for help.”

At first, Olive felt a faint desire to believe that the words were true. That was what had happened, wasn’t it? 

_ No, it’s not. You remember what really happened.  _

Oh, yes Olive did remember what really happened. Well, there was no need to believe the story Amélie had told her, then.

_ Pretend. _

Okay. “A tall white man with light hair came to the apartment to ask Mom about money. She couldn’t give it to him, so he came inside and started breaking stuff. Mom tried to stop him, and he killed her. He locked me in the pantry so I couldn’t call for help.”

Amélie smiled widely, opened the pantry door, and shoved Olive inside. “Good blood bag,” she said. “Oh, and a word of advice. This dump isn’t open on Sundays, according to the sign outside. So it’ll be awhile before someone finds you. Don’t pass out, because as soon as you hear someone nearby, you’ll need to scream as loudly as you can, won’t you blood bag? Otherwise, by the time anyone finds you, you might be dead already!” And she slammed the door shut, plunging Olive into darkness. The lock clicked. “Let’s go,  _ cher _ ,” the vampire said from the other side of the door. “You’ve got a grave to dig!”

And then Olive was alone. 

Olive sat in the dark for a long time, legs pretzled awkwardly so she could fit in the meager space, before she remembered that she could turn on the light. She reached up and pulled the hanging chain connected to the lightbulb, which flickered on. 

After awhile, Olive was thirsty. Absently, she assessed her surroundings. There was plenty of dry food in the pantry, but nothing she could drink that wasn’t in a can, and she had no can opener. She went back to just sitting there.

Eventually, the sun came up. The light creeped in under the pantry door, so Olive turned off the lightbulb. She was hungry, so she ate some crackers. Then her stomach started to twist, so stopped eating crackers. 

Would anyone hear if she screamed now? It was Sunday, but some of the nearby shops would still be open by now. Olive’s throat was awfully dry. Would she be able to scream loud enough?

_ No.  _

Okay. She waited. 

It was hot again. Extremely hot, and humid. Olive’s skin was coated in sweat, her hair heavy against her neck. She took off her shirt and wrapped it around her head and hair like a turban. This cooled her off, but made it more difficult to support the weight of her head. Her neck ached. Her head felt strange. Fuzzy. She was very tired, but she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw something horrible, so she opened them again.

Olive was dizzy. The air inside the pantry was stifling. She couldn’t take a deep enough breath to satisfy her lungs. Her stomach hurt. She couldn’t feel her hands or her feet. She closed her eyes, and couldn’t open them again. 

When Olive woke, it was dark. She reached up and turned on the lightbulb. There was a strange feeling in her hindbrain. It broke through the haze that had fallen over her mind just enough for her to realize what it meant. Leon was a vampire now. He had woken just now, just as she had. She was so thirsty. It was still so hot. The haze came back. 

Olive became aware of a strange smell. Something gaseous. Sulfuric and rotting, coming from the other side of the door. She didn’t think about it. 

Olive threw up. Now there was a horrible smell inside the pantry too. She shoved the small pile out through the gap beneath the door, and the smell abated slightly. She opened a jar of tea leaves and shoved them beneath her nose. Peppermint. 

The sun rose again. It did that every day, Olive supposed. Strange, that it somehow surprised her to see it. Her entire body was shaking. 

It was Monday. There were no appointments scheduled for today. Should she scream? Would anyone co--?

A jolt in her gut. Olive blinked, mind clearing slightly. 

“Hello?” A voice in the hallway. Two sets of footsteps. “Hello, this is Brenda Worth and Charles Norton with Child Protective Services, is anyone--Oh my God! Ms. Ward! Chuck, call 911! Ms. Ward are you alright?”

A male voice. “Oh God, the kid! Olive? Olive!”

And Olive opened her mouth. . .

. . . and screamed. 

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I understand that. But that doesn’t mean it stops hurting.”

A sigh. “I guess not.”

**. . .**

“Your mother sounds like a remarkable woman,” Eric said gently after a long moment of silence, wrapping an arm around Olive’s shoulders and squeezing them close together like sardines in a can where they sat perched on the bottom step of Eric’s opulent staircase. 

“She was,” Olive agreed quietly. 

She could feel Eric’s gaze boring into the top of her head. “So that dagger from last night. . .” her Maker probed carefully.

Olive nodded. “It’s the one that killed her,” she confirmed darkly. Careful not to touch the silver with her skin, Olive brought a hand up to pat the bulge the dagger created in her jacket. She spared a moment to be grateful that it had been carefully tucked into her inner pocket when she had Turned, such that no bit of it could be exposed unintentionally. Olive exhaled heavily, breath rattling emptily in her lungs. “I was never completely sure why I took it with me,” she confessed. “Not until now, anyway. I mean, it’s saved my life a number of times, that’s for sure. But that never really felt like. . . like its  _ purpose. _ ”

“And what is its purpose?” Eric asked, though the feral grin stretching across his lips told Olive that he had an idea already.

Images flickered across the back of her eyelids. Olive catching a glimpse of a familiar pair of vampires across a crowded room. His eyes widening in fear and shock, hers in disbelief and rage. 

Olive’s widening in anticipation as she palmed the hilt of her dagger--wrapped in leather cords--and smirked at The Hermit and The Queen of Wands.

“Its purpose,” Olive mused, pulling herself back into the present, “is that one day I’m going to take this dagger and shove it into Amélie Laroux’s pathetic, shriveled heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of flashback! We all knew it was coming, but are we sad to see Iris go? I was certainly sad to write her. It's hard to craft a character you love, knowing that she's going to die almost as soon as she's introduced.
> 
> But alas, had to be done. Now back to our regularly scheduled vampire drama! Next chapter: Pam!
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments while I was off procrastinating. They really are very encouraging to read, and an influx of comments over the last couple days on AO3 is actually what got my butt in gear to write this chapter. So thanks!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please let me know what you think!


	8. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olive meets her new sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: this chapter has been mostly written for two months, but I just couldn't get myself to finish it until now. Yikes, I know. I'm almost done with my semester-should be turning in the last of my finals next week-so maybe I'll be able to update more frequently over winter break? Don't quote me on that, though.
> 
> In all seriousness, thank you all for your patience, for following and bookmarking, and for your lovely comments and reviews! Any engagement with the story is encouraging to see, and it helps motivate me to write more and more. I hope you all are staying safe, and that you enjoy the chapter!

Olive woke with an unfamiliar kind of abruptness. One minute she was utterly unaware of anything. The next, her eyes popped open and quiet noise flooded her ears, her instincts humming to life. She stared at the blank white ceiling above, felt the soft mattress beneath her back, smelled pine and hardwood and sea salt all around her. She felt none of the anxiety she usually did upon waking. There was no split-second where she panicked because she didn’t know where she was. Olive was simply awake, in what she knew must have been Eric's bed, since it was practically saturated in his scent. The room looked to his tastes as well, filled with rich fabrics, ornate carvings, and dark jewel tones. A massive broadsword--large enough that only someone Eric’s size could possibly wield it with anything approaching ease--was mounted on the wall above the bed. The man himself sat below it, next to Olive on the mattress, propped up against the headboard and reading a book. It was. . . comfortable. 

“Good evening,” he greeted her immediately, sliding a bookmark between the pages--and of  _ course _ he wasn’t the type to dogear a book, Olive might’ve known--and turning to give her a smile. The expression was very natural. Genuine, despite the fact that Olive got the distinct impression Eric didn’t smile at many people. 

“Hi,” she said quietly, returning the gesture with a small quirk of her own lips. Olive sat up a little more smoothly and quickly than she would have been capable of a day or two ago. She noticed that she hadn’t been under the blankets--but then again, why should she have been? She would no longer get cold, even though it was the dead of winter and she was wearing. . . only a large tee shirt? Olive furrowed her brow in confusion, plucking at the borrowed black shirt. It was obviously Eric’s. If his scent clinging to it hadn’t given that fact away, the fact that it fell past her hips like a dress several times too big for her would have. And she was very clearly not wearing anything underneath it. “Um. What?” she asked intelligently.

Eric chuckled. “You fell into your day rest while you were in the shower last night,” he explained. “Normally, even a newborn vampire would be able to stay awake until they were in their resting place. The fact that you just passed out right there in the shower says a lot about how comfortable with me you must be already,” her Maker grinned, teasing Olive lightly. Despite his tone, however, she could feel just how pleased Eric was at her unconscious (haha, “unconscious;” Olive did enjoy a good pun every now and then) show of trust.

Olive was glad she couldn’t blush anymore. She remembered now. Eric had been waiting outside the bathroom while she washed the dirt and blood off her body. They’d been chatting idly--his voice as clear through the door and over the sound of running water as if he was in the same room--while Olive shampooed her hair. Then she’d started to feel. . . not  _ tired _ exactly. Or not the sleepy kind of tired, anyway. Rather sort of heavy, like her body was just going to shut down. Apparently it had done just that, since the next thing Olive remembered was waking up a minute ago. But that meant. . . 

“Yes, I finished bathing you,” Eric confirmed gleefully, reading her thought process through the bond or off of her face, or some combination of the two. “I even hopped in the shower with you, since I knew my instincts wouldn’t let me leave you alone to bathe  _ myself _ after getting you settled. Nice tattoo, by the way,” he tacked on, smirking. 

Olive rolled her eyes, but unconsciously raised a hand to brush over the olive branch tattoo that traced the underside of her left breast. She was glad it had survived her Turning. 

For some reason, the fact that Eric had seen her naked, had even  _ touched _ her naked body while she was unaware, didn’t bother her that much. Normally, that would be the kind of thing to get Olive up in arms--a man barging in and taking advantage of a woman who couldn’t consent or object. But despite Eric’s teasing tone, she knew somehow that the interaction hadn’t been sexual in nature. He was attracted to her, certainly (and the feeling was mutual), but that moment. . .  _ Safe _ , her instincts whispered.  _ Kind. Gentle. _

Images flashed before her eyes, enlightening her as to what exactly had gone on last night after she passed out. Olive saw herself lying prone in the enormous shower stall. Eric cradling her body carefully. Running a loofah over her skin, scratching tenderly at her scalp to wash out the shampoo. Tipping her head back so the stream of water coming from overhead would trickle away from her face, even though she wasn’t awake to worry about it. Lifting her out of the shower, drying off her body gently with a fluffy towel. Tucking her into one of his own shirts and laying her gingerly onto his bed. 

Oh great. Now Olive was even more embarrassed than she had been before! Beside herself, she buried her face in her hands as if to conceal her nonexistent flush. “Oh my God,” she said faintly. That was--oh boy, that was intimate. Completely innocent, and yet. . . “Hnnnnnng,” Olive groaned, mortified. 

Eric barked out a laugh. “Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he chortled, clearly having a great deal of fun at Olive’s expense. However, there was an element of sincerity to his words that also came across in the pulse of  _ comfortwarmthit’sokay _ that he projected to her over their bond.

Olive’s mouth twisted up, caught between a helpless smile and a puzzled grimace. “Yeah, I get that, logically,” she replied. “It’s just, uh. . . No one’s--no one’s ever done anything like that for me before,” Olive confessed quietly after chewing that fact over for a moment. Iris must have bathed her when she was young, of course, but Olive didn’t really remember it. And no one since her mother had ever been allowed close enough to get the opportunity to try it. Shower sex was one thing. Being wet and naked and completely open and vulnerable in unconsciousness was another. But with Eric. . . well, Olive could afford to be a little vulnerable it seemed. She had been yesterday. Extremely so, in fact. 

The Viking softened. “It was my honor,” he murmured, reaching out to card a hand through her hair. Remarkably, it wasn’t too tangled. He must have taken good care of it. Olive smiled.

The beast in her chest--her new set of vampire instincts--roared to life. It was viciously, smugly satisfied.  _ Our Maker _ , it purred proprietarily.  _ Takes care of us _ . _ Good. Strong. _ Of all the images Olive’s sixth sense had provided, however, Vampire Olive was particularly interested in the few snapshots of Eric’s naked body. Specifically his dick. Even flaccid it was-- _ ooooh boy _ . Was he a shower  _ and _ a grower? Olive shook her head violently, even as heat pooled abruptly in her gut. Not the time, not the time!

“My my,” Eric said in a low, interested voice, smirking widely with masculine pride. Obviously he knew  _ exactly _ what she was thinking about. “If only we had time to properly explore  _ that _ feeling.” He sighed dramatically, and Olive knew it was somehow for her benefit. “Unfortunately, we have a full schedule tonight. No time for. . .  _ distractions _ .”

Olive pursed her lips at his teasing--though she could tell it wasn’t really a joke--but couldn’t help her small smile. Her arousal faded almost as quickly as it had come. Vampire mood swings were nothing to sneeze at, apparently. That would take some getting used to. “Alright, boss,” Olive said dryly. “What’s on the docket?” 

“Well first and foremost,” an unfamiliar voice chimed in from the doorway, “you are in serious need of a new wardrobe, honey.”

Many people probably would have been startled or alarmed by a stranger casually inserting herself into a personal conversation. Many vampires probably would have reacted violently to an unknown factor suddenly appearing in their space. But Olive wasn’t like most people--or, probably, most vampires. None of her instincts were reacting to the woman’s presence, so Olive figured the newcomer wasn’t a threat. She was a little taken aback that she hadn’t noticed the vampire’s approach, but a closer look at the figure cleared up Olive’s confusion. 

The woman in the doorway wasn’t a stranger at all. Though Olive had never met her, she  _ had _ seen her in her visions, had heard Eric speak of her, had smelled her scent--similar enough to Eric’s that it didn’t register as threatening--throughout the nest. No, she wasn’t a threat at all.  _ Sister! _ Olive’s vampire instincts crowed.  _ Nest mate! _

Olive smiled slightly, even as a small thread of anxiety stirred in her chest. This was an important person, and Olive didn’t exactly have a history of making good first impressions. She squashed down the nerves before they could take root. “You must be Pam,” Olive greeted evenly. “It’s good to finally meet you while I’m awake. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Pam surveyed her judgmentally. If Olive were the type to feel insecure about her appearance, those feelings probably would have overwhelmed her there and then. Pam was a put together, statuesque kind of beauty. Even dressed in the odd, somewhat intimidating bondage-wear that Olive knew was popular at vampire clubs, Pam managed to look elegant. Olive, on the other hand, was laying in bed with her hair a complete mess, not a stitch of makeup on her face, and wearing nothing but a tee shirt so large it looked like she had donned a pillow case. It wasn’t exactly a favorable comparison. 

Good thing Olive didn’t care. Well, not about  _ that _ , anyway. 

Pam sniffed. “Only good things I hope,” she drawled, clearly unimpressed and just doling out the response that was expected of her. 

_ Don’t hold back _ , Olive’s instincts urged her.  _ Don’t hesitate. Speak your mind. _

Hmm. Okay then.

Olive snorted, thinking of the various bratty and/or bitchy expressions her new “sister” had worn in so many of her visions.  _ Prickly _ , Eric had called her. Yeah, that was a word for it. “Mostly good things,” Olive allowed. “But that’s alright. You’d have to be pretty boring for there to be  _ only _ good things to say about you.” Pam’s eyebrow rose, and Olive smirked, not even needing the prodding from her instincts to know that Pam had appreciated that response. 

“Well well, someone’s got a mouth on her,” the older woman said huskily. Oh, so she’d  _ really  _ appreciated it. Huh, her face wasn’t very expressive. Olive would have to get used to that. Pam’s eyes trailed over Olive’s exposed legs, up to the hemline that protected her more. . .  _ delicate _ areas from view. “I suppose she’s not too bad to look at, at least,” the vampire mused. 

“No, she’s definitely not,” Eric spoke up, voice rough, as he reached over to run the backs of his fingers lightly over Olive’s thigh. A spike of satisfaction reached Olive from his side of the bond, making her smile. Clearly he was pleased the two of them were getting along well enough so far. Pam obviously felt it too, because something about her softened, even as she intently traced the movement of Eric’s hand along Olive’s leg. 

The heat of her gaze and Eric’s touch raced along Olive’s skin like wildfire, traveling upwards and pooling pleasantly in her gut. Her fangs snapped down with an audible  _ snick, _ an automatic response to her arousal. This only seemed to increase Eric and Pam’s excitement. However, the feeling of her fangs dropping roused another need in Olive’s stomach, which burned all the way up to her throat. She swallowed thickly around her fangs, suddenly ravenous in a much more literal sense. 

“Ah,” Eric said, obviously noticing her hunger. “My apologies. You have such good control, it’s easy to forget how young you are. Most newborns would be able to think of little else besides feeding. But you. . .” he trailed off, but Olive got the picture. 

“Yes, aren’t you just special,” Pam agreed, and while her words sounded aggravated, Olive sensed that there was a real feeling of intrigue there as well. Not confusion though. . .

_ She knows.  _ “Oh,” Olive said blankly, voice slightly distorted by the fangs she couldn't  _ quite _ manage to will away. “You told her.”

Olive could feel Eric examining her closely. “Yes,” he said simply, not offering any kind of explanation. He felt. . . firm, through the bond. Not uncompromising, though--Olive knew she could object if she wanted to (though whether her objections would change his mind was unclear. . .).

Did she want to object? Olive didn’t really have a problem with Eric telling  _ Pam _ about her abilities. She trusted Eric’s judgement, and trusted the woman not to go spreading sensitive information around--especially if Eric had told her not to. It was just. . . “Just. . . ask me first? Next time?” Olive requested eventually, quietly.

Pam scoffed, and Olive couldn’t stop the automatic tightening of her jaw at the dismissive noise. She hissed as one of her fangs caught on her lower lip and gouged it open, then twitched at the feeling of the wound sealing closed almost instantly. That would take some getting used to.

Eric shot Pam a quelling look, then leaned forward and brushed his thumb across Olive’s lips, wiping away the blood. His touch wasn’t particularly cool or hot--they were the same temperature now, Olive supposed--but it left a blazing trail of heat across Olive’s skin. If she could blush--no, that wasn’t really a helpful notion anymore, was it? If her fangs weren’t already down, they would have dropped then and there. Olive swallowed harshly as Eric popped his thumb into his mouth and sucked her blood straight off of it. God, Olive didn’t know if she was more aroused by the motion, or by the  _ blood _ . She was. . .  _ seriously _ thirsty. Eric smirked, and Olive could feel how pleased he was by her reaction, but he didn’t allow the conversation to derail. “I’m your Maker,” he pointed out, voice low. “Your secrets are mine.”

Olive noted that he didn’t say that the reverse was true as well. Her secrets were his, but his secrets were not hers--not all of them anyway. Not automatically. That grated a little, but Olive could understand it. He was the authority in this relationship--the sire, the parent, the Maker, whatever you wanted to call it. Olive was the childe. Of course Eric wouldn’t share everything with her. That was fine. 

So long as he understood that with her around, some of his secrets might not stay secret for long. 

Olive took a deep, unnecessary breath, centering herself. “I know that,” she acknowledged Eric’s claim. “I don’t mind that you told Pam,” she admitted, and the woman’s face shifted just slightly.  _ She’s surprised. More possessive than you are, more proud. She’d hate for you to know any of  _ her _ secrets. _ “I know that you wouldn’t tell anyone you don’t trust--and I get the feeling that’s not a very long list,” Olive said wryly. She hesitated briefly, looking into Eric’s icy blue eyes. “Just--just keep in mind that there are reasons why it might be a bad idea to tell someone other than just misplaced trust. And if you just run it by me before telling anyone, then I should be able to tell if letting someone in on it will have. . . repercussions. You know?”

Eric studied her, still leaning slightly forward into her personal space, which Olive was perfectly alright with. “And that won’t result in any of the. . .  _ unfortunate side effects  _ from last night?” he asked intently.

Ah, the side effects. The side effects that had consisted of Olive becoming trapped in her own vision--in her own mind--confused, bleeding, and in excruciating pain. Those side effects. Yeah, Olive was keen to avoid those as well. But she also wasn’t going to let them stop her from using her gifts, particularly since she needed to relearn some things about them now that her transformation had altered her abilities so significantly. Looking into Eric’s stern face, however, Olive could tell that now was not the time for that conversation. “It shouldn’t be a problem,” she assured him. “If it’s a really bad idea to tell anyone, then my instincts should kick in automatically without me having to intentionally ask any questions.” It was nice that he was so worried about this, though. It made Olive feel warm, somehow. 

Eric considered this. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment. “I’ll inform you next time. And  _ you’ll _ inform  _ me _ if there’s anything to worry about.” It wasn’t a question.

Olive smiled coyly. “Of course,” she said lightly. “I’m at your disposal.” She flicked her tongue out to lap at the remains of the blood on her lip. Of course, this only reminded Olive of how hungry she was, which rather ruined the moment.

The pang of Olive’s thirst seemed to snap Eric back into the moment. “Right,” he cleared his throat. “We need to get you fed and dressed. The three of us are needed at the club in less than an hour.”

Olive blanched. Eric had told her last night as they chatted about the vampire bar he and Pam owned in town. To her understanding, it was one of the hottest spots in Shreveport, and consequently very  _ crowded _ . “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to be around that many humans yet.” Strangely though, no images of her ripping out innocent throats flashed across Olive’s vision as they had last night, when Eric had suggested having her feed on a human. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea then?

Eric snorted. “Don’t worry. Humans aren’t allowed in until 9:00 in the winter. 10:00 in the summer. Before that there’s two hours of time where any local supernaturals can bring issues up for my judgement as the Sheriff. When the club opens for real, you and I will head to my office. It’s mostly soundproof, and a little removed from the action. You’ll be able to get a taste of what it’s like to hear and smell a lot of humans around without having to be right in the thick of it where you might lose control.” Oh, so that was why Olive hadn’t seen anything. She wouldn’t be ripping any throats because she would be staying well away from temptation altogether. “Then the club closes at 2:00, and there’s more time for complaints or petitions to be brought forward until an hour before sunrise.”

While Olive mulled that over, she caught Eric signalling Pam out of the corner of her eye. Evidently, no words even needed to be spoken, because Pamela merely rolled her bright blue eyes (thickly and severely lined as they were) and crossed to a small dresser paneled with darkly colored--hmm. Not wood, though it looked like wood at first glance. Pam bent over (and Olive took a moment to admire the view--the leather pencil skirt left  _ nothing _ to the imagination) and opened it, revealing, to Olive’s surprise, a small refrigerator containing a few rows of blood bags. She glanced at Eric.  _ Emergency stash _ , he mouthed, grinning, and Olive couldn’t help but return his smile. 

“What do you want?” Pam asked blandly over her shoulder.

“AB,” Olive answered automatically, scarcely even thinking about it. The difference in taste between the blood types had been frankly astonishing, and AB had been by far the best. Rich, salty, a little bit tangy--with just a hint of something spicy at the end. Olive’s gums ached just thinking about it, as if her fangs were longing to drop all over again. “If you’ve got it,” she tacked on as an afterthought.

Pam snorted, and chucked a bag at Olive’s head. She caught it on instinct, and barely resisted tearing into it with her fangs as her vampire instincts urged her to do. But Olive remembered Eric’s warning about not using her fangs until she knew how to use them  _ right _ , so instead she cracked open the valve at the top of the bag, clasped her lips around the tube, and sucked until her cheeks went hollow, moaning slightly when the blood hit her tongue. Even cold it soothed the ache in her throat and stomach instantly, settling something in her that Olive hadn’t even really been aware was on edge. 

Eric and Pam both watched intently as she fed. Olive could feel their gazes burning into her skin, and she shifted, rubbing her thighs together to ease the ache developing between them. Eric groaned quietly. Though Pam didn’t express it outwardly, Olive could smell that the older woman was similarly affected (and wasn’t that something, being able to smell arousal--it was kind of sweet and spicy simultaneously--and more than that, being able to tell that was what the smell  _ was _ without even being told), and allowed herself a brief moment of smug satisfaction. 

“At least she has good taste,” Pam said idly, eyes very obviously locked on Olive’s lips. “Would’ve had to disown her if she preferred B.”

Simultaneously, the three of them made similarly disgusted noises at the very idea. Olive blinked, then snorted in amusement. 

Eric checked his watch. “Damn,” he muttered. “We’ve really got to get moving,” he informed the two women. The two sisters?  _ What a strange thought _ , Olive mused, still sucking down the blood like it was a juice pouch. “Pam, I leave her in your capable hands,” Eric said, gesturing to Olive’s nearly-naked form.

Pam snapped to attention. Though her posture shifted only slightly, the change in her demeanor was immediately obvious. A slightly eager, mildly malicious light entered her eyes. For some reason the sight of it made Olive feel fond, rather than wary. “Alright toots,” Pam began, drawing out the pet name caustically. “You can’t be going out and representing our Maker while dressed like a homeless person. We have a certain image to maintain,” she stressed. “ _ Especially  _ at the club. When dressing for Fangtasia, a general rule of thumb is that if your clothes aren’t hurting you, you aren’t trying hard enough,” Pam drawled. She looked Olive’s t-shirt clad body up and down. “Now let me see what I’m working with.”

Olive raised an eyebrow.  _ Don’t hesitate _ , her instincts reminded her. 

Well, in that case. . . 

In a single, fluid motion--far more fluid than she was capable of as a human--Olive discarded her empty blood bag, slid out of the bed and onto her feet, and smoothly pulled her shirt up and over her head, leaving her standing proudly in the middle of the room, as naked as the day she was born. Olive looked up at Pam through her lashes, only to find the woman’s eyes locked firmly on her exposed breasts. “I’m in your hands,” Olive said, one part coy, two parts smirking like the little shit she was at heart. Her fangs were still out and bloody. “Please take care of me,” she couldn’t resist adding. 

And finally-- _ finally _ \--a genuinely amused and  _ very  _ pleased smirk (nearly a smile!) stole its way across Pam’s face. “Well,” she said slowly. “I  _ do _ like the sound of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pam has entered the scene! And she and Olive are getting on. . . surprisingly well? I thought about this a lot when considering what their dynamic would look like, and I think a lot of the reason why Pam was so insecure about Eric turning a new vampire in canon was because he had just recently released her, and she felt like she was being replaced. But here, she still has her bond with Eric and he's made it very clear that she and Olive are going to occupy different roles in his life. Plus, it doesn't hurt that Olive is hot and knows exactly how to deal with Pam. It'll still take awhile for them to build up a real relationship that isn't based just on flirting, but in the end, they're not in too bad of a spot. We'll see how long that lasts.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and sorry again about the delay! Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!


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